


Full View

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adultery, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fingerfucking, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, emotional masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can already feel the creeping guilt swallowing him from the inside out; all of his jealous, malicious thoughts coagulating into one harsh, brutal reality: whatever is going on between John and the future Mrs Watson, it has absolutely nothing to do with him, and wishing Mary ill will do nothing but distance himself from John.</p>
<p>If he forces John to choose, the likely outcome will not be in his favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full View

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/gifts).



> Written for the 2014 summer Holmestice fic exchange, for radialarch, whose ideas and prompts were all right up my alley. 
> 
> Epic thanks to my incredible beta team, especially to thesmallhobbit, who managed to keep my writing from wandering and who is a constant source of information and inspiration. Thanks also to [Ariane DeVere (aka Callie Sullivan)](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/), without whom I could never have gotten through all the dialogue between these boys.   
> Title borrowed from the lovely Sara Bareillis.

**Full View**

Sherlock can’t quite recall exactly how it began. He vaguely remembers the client with the missing date, claiming to have had dinner with a ghost, and then the poor bloke’s flat, and he has hazy recollections of being threatened by the landlord, the distant sound of sirens and then he and John were out in the street, racing clumsily along as they tried to outrun their own stumbling inebriation.

Somehow, John had ducked into an alley, snatching at Sherlock’s coat sleeve and tugging him along; pulling him all the way towards the dead end and behind a thankfully not too revolting skip. John had found a piece of cardboard and tossed it to the ground, collapsing down onto it and yanking at Sherlock’s trouser leg until he had reluctantly followed, back braced against the cool brick wall with John leaning heavily against his side. Sherlock remembers fighting for breath, choking on the taste of vomit in his mouth and the uncontrollable chuckles that wouldn’t seem to stop, no matter how hard he had tried to repress them.

“Here,” John finally says around a mouthful of breathless giggles. He digs around in the pocket of his jacket and produces a miraculous bottle of water, twisting open the cap and taking a swig before passing it over to Sherlock. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but takes the drink gladly; sloshing the clear, cool liquid around his mouth and spitting out the residual taste of last night’s curry before tipping back the bottle and swallowing half of it in one.

“Oi,” John laughs, reaching over and tugging at Sherlock’s fingers until he relents and allows John to drag the bottle away. “I only managed to nick one. We’ll have to share.”

“You nicked it?” Sherlock slurs, watching with perhaps too much intensity as John’s mouth wraps around the top of the bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his thin lips pressing along the plastic just where Sherlock’s had been mere seconds ago.

“Yeah,” John says finally, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and offering the last few swallows to Sherlock with a mischievous grin. “Tosser had them just out on the worktop, didn’t he. I figure if he’s really a ghost, doesn’t matter who drinks his posh water, eh?”

Sherlock cannot help it. He bursts into laughter: the low, gasping one that splits his face into an uneven smile, tears of mirth streaking down his face as he takes in the wonderfully unpredictable man before him. He feels loose and carefree, the lethargy from earlier evaporating into the rush of camaraderie and genuine, baffling amusement. John’s answering grin is beatific and he reaches forward to pull something no doubt disgusting out of Sherlock’s hair, but his fingers pause, lingering along the side of Sherlock’s temple, the grin sliding off his face as the very air between them seems to crackle and vibrate with renewed tension.

Sherlock feels his laughter fade, his own face suddenly hot and tight, John’s fingers in the side of his curls a steady, burning pressure. He feels his breath catch, all the alcohol and adrenaline buzzing through his veins suddenly vanishing as John tentatively leans forward, his expression fierce and intense.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, feeling John’s breath ghost over his suddenly dry lips. He can taste the acrid tang of whiskey as John exhales shakily, his dark blue gaze focused on Sherlock’s bottom lip as he licks his own. Sherlock swallows nervously, afraid to move lest he shatter this moment completely. John’s eyes dart up to his, and the question lurking there is too much.

Sherlock leans in and finally, _finally_ closes the gap between them, brushing his lips gently across John’s mouth, every single nerve tingling with a long-repressed yearning. John is still for one breathless heartbeat before he lunges forward, mouth open and curious, tugging Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting down gently.

Sherlock cannot help the deep groan that shakes itself loose from his chest, spilling up through his mouth and across his tongue, into John’s lips like an offering. He feels his chest clench tightly, part of his brain screaming that this is more than a bit not good; that allowing this to happen now, after so many wasted years of fierce longing and brutal denial will only end in heartbreak, but it’s a futile thought. John’s tongue flicks out against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock opens gladly, sliding his own tongue out to caress against John’s teeth, tasting the bitter ale and whiskey along with desperation and testosterone and it’s all too much and not nearly enough.

John sighs into his mouth, all wet tongue and biting teeth, and Sherlock can’t _breathe_. John shifts forward, practically climbing into Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock gasps wetly as his body rages out of control. He smoothes his hand up the back of John’s shirt, slipping his fingers beneath layers of cotton and wool to finally touch the impossibly hot skin along John’s spine. John moans against his tongue, and the sound goes straight through Sherlock’s gut, pooling hot and dangerous in the pit of his abdomen. It’s suddenly overwhelming, and Sherlock bites at John’s mouth, demanding and probably too hard, but Sherlock could not stop himself now if his life depended on it. It’s like dying and being reborn, like sunbursts and thunder and every other cliché he can possibly think of, and when John rocks his hips in a torturously slow slide, Sherlock feels as though he’s shattering apart completely.

“John,” he breathes, fingers tight and numb, sensation zinging through every nerve until all he can see, taste and feel is John against him, around him, burning straight through him like wildfire.

“You,” John growls, and there’s something dark and possessive in his tone. Sherlock tips his head back against the brick wall, feeling the cool roughness against his scalp through the thick tangle of his curls and tries to remain upright as John’s teeth skim along his throat to his collarbone, tearing the buttons of his shirt open and grunting into his skin. Sherlock’s hands splay out across John’s back, pulling him closer and arching against him, feeling the hard line of John’s body twist and writhe against his own thighs. John’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his face forwards and devouring his mouth, his other hand dropping down to wrestle with his own belt buckle. The clink of metal seems overly loud, and the realization of what they’re doing suddenly washes over Sherlock like a douse of icy water.

“John, stop,” he gasps, pulling his face to the side and trying to ignore the way John’s teeth latch onto his carotid instead, no doubt leaving vividly purple bruises for everyone to see. The thought is not unappealing, and Sherlock has to grind his teeth together in order to jerk his mind back into some semblance of control. “John,” he tries again, but the word ends on a moan as John’s palm rubs firmly across the front of his straining trousers.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John growls, slightly unsteady fingers curling around Sherlock’s cock through the wool and squeezing. “For once in your life, just shut the fuck up.”

Sherlock bites back a scathing retort, teeth sinking into his own bottom lip as John’s hand pulls firmly at his length, the rasp of his pants grating and sticky against the sensitive head of his prick. Sherlock’s hips buck upwards of their own volition and John’s answering grin is distinctly predatory. He takes Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss full of so much heat and desire, Sherlock feels it all the way down to his toes. Sherlock can feel the tenuous control on his own restraint cracking with each desperate rock of John’s hips, each low groan against his skin. He feels greedy and powerful, and wonders vaguely why he’s been holding back at all. John is clearly willing and right here and why exactly isn’t Sherlock allowed to have precisely what he wants?

Giving over to his own desires, Sherlock lashes out, catching John around the waist and pushing him back and over, chasing him down as he lands heavily onto the edge of the cardboard. He slides one knee between John’s legs and _pushes_ , feeling John’s cock thicken and jerk against his thigh, a high-pitched, keening whine escaping his lips as Sherlock falls forward with a grunt. Sherlock can feel the heat of arousal curling through his veins, every instinct he has shouting at him to mark, to bite, to _claim_. He braces himself on one elbow, his right hand pushing up under John’s jaw and tilting his face back, baring his throat to Sherlock’s insistent teeth. He can feel John’s heated groan as it rumbles up through his chest, along his larynx and into the night air.

Sherlock settles his weight fully against John’s body, their hips aligning and crashing together as John arches instinctively up, rubbing himself shamelessly against Sherlock as lust and longing visibly chase through his skin. Sherlock is mesmerized by the high flush staining John’s cheeks, the subconsciously submissive tilt of his head, the way his eyelids flutter every time Sherlock rocks forwards against him.

“Fuck,” John gasps, his hands finally scrabbling across the filthy ground and landing on Sherlock’s arse, pulling him down and squeezing tightly, the added pressure sending Sherlock’s already-spiking libido spiralling into overdrive. He groans against John’s mouth, fingers dragging across cotton and skin until he reaches the button on John’s trousers, yanking and wrenching until he manages to get his hand _in_ , squirming under the elastic band of John’s pants and finally wrapping tightly around the incredibly hot, thick length of him, smearing the sticky moisture leaking from the tip along his palm as he squeezes and pulls.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” John pants, his head falling back in supplication against the grimy cardboard. “Sherlock, oh my _god_.”

Sherlock grins, sharp and possessive, and swallows John’s moan against his tongue, his own cock digging and dragging across his wrist as he begins to fist John quickly, all thought of artfulness lost in the heat and frenzy of the moment. He can feel the knuckle of his thumb drag along his own frenulum as he speeds up, John’s cock pulsing and jerking in his fingers. He can feel his head spinning: oxygen deprivation and alcohol making everything hazy and frantic and he rips his mouth away just as John hitches his breath, one leg spasming to the side as his cock throbs suddenly thicker and then Sherlock’s hand is slick and warm, John’s orgasm bursting out of him like a supernova. Sherlock is captivated, staring down in fascination as John’s face contorts in pleasurable agony, his penis pulsing twice more as he rides out his climax. Sherlock can taste his own rapidly approaching orgasm, heavy and metallic on the back of his tongue and he leans in to capture John’s mouth, soft now and pliant with sated satisfaction.

“You now,” John pants, shoving his hands into the back of Sherlock’s trousers and pulling him in, wrapping one leg around Sherlock’s hips and rocking up against him. Sherlock can feel his cock harden further, feel the way John’s body squirms and shifts until he’s suddenly _there_ , rutting into the crease of John’s arse, trousers pulled taut against the swell of his bollocks. John is impossibly hot and tight, the seam of his trousers riding high into the damp furrow between his arsecheeks and Sherlock pushes himself into the space there, feeling John’s muscles give, the head of his cock catching along fabric and wishing desperately that their clothes would just magically melt away, and then he could be _inside_ John; irrevocably connected to him in ways nobody could ever dispute.

The implication of the movement shoots straight through to his spine and he feels his muscles clenching, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until he flashes over into white-hot sensation. He comes with a groan, teeth digging harshly into John’s cotton-covered shoulder, writhing and panting as it seems to go on and on; his cock pumping sticky semen into the ruined cotton of his boxer briefs. Sherlock groans and pushes his hips down, keeping his hand curled gently around John’s softening prick and feeling each twitch as the aftershocks shudder through his smaller frame. John blinks his eyes open and stares up at Sherlock with a lazy smile, and Sherlock feels his throat tighten with unwelcome emotion.

“Yes,” John says, as though Sherlock had asked a question. He feels suddenly and horrifyingly uncertain, the ramifications of their admittedly drunken encounter abruptly flooding through him like an icy tide. He slowly extracts his hand, trying not to smear John’s already rumpled and filthy clothing with irrefutable evidence of what they’ve just done. John catches his wrist and drags his hand forward, wicked tongue darting out to chase along his knuckles, grimacing a little at the taste and chuckling at Sherlock’s dumbfounded expression.

“That,” John says with extreme conviction, dropping Sherlock’s hand and arching his back in a deep stretch, “was incredibly hot.”

Sherlock just blinks down at him, confused and incredulous and still slightly drunk. His head is full of an unpleasant buzzing sound, and he can feel the dread and panic starting to take over as the endorphins dissipate.

“John,” he says tentatively, his voice sounding wrecked even to his own ears. John just smiles softly and shakes his head, tangling his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s curls and pulling him in for a gentle kiss. Sherlock leans into it, unable and unwilling to let this go; helpless against his own desire as John’s tongue slides along his own with almost unbearable sweetness.

There’s the sharp sound of crunching gravel and a single, piercing siren as the police car rolls up to the end of the alley, and Sherlock can practically see the moment shattering around them as reality comes violently slamming back into full view. John’s face blanches and he visibly snaps out of the daze of pheromones, shoving and wrestling with Sherlock until he can squirm his way back into his trousers, hastily re-fastening his belt and looking as comically conspicuous as possible. Sherlock backs away slowly, wiping his hand onto the cardboard and smoothing his own clothing down into what he hopes resembles some form of propriety. John is looking panicked and nauseous, and Sherlock feels his stomach sinking further and further with each passing second.

“Let me handle this,” Sherlock murmurs, catching John’s wrist and squeezing it once. John nods and clenches his jaw, staggering to his feet as the copper comes ambling down the alleyway, torch blazing through the fog.

“Evening, boys,” comes the startlingly familiar lazy drawl. Sherlock narrows his eyes against the infuriatingly bright glare of the torch and feels the dread deepen.

“Gregson,” Sherlock nods tightly, wondering what on earth he did to deserve this level of punishment. John is looking quickly between them, clearly realizing something is wrong, but too drunk on alcohol and residual endorphins to make the connection.

“Heard you lot got into a spot of trouble,” Gregson declares, all smug superiority and condescension, and Sherlock remembers vividly the thorough dressing-down he’d given the man not two weeks previously. He can feel John tense beside him, feel the way his protective instincts rear out of his control, feel the patronizing words bubbling up behind his teeth...

And the world goes suddenly, violently dark.

: :

Sherlock gasps into consciousness, the shout that woke him echoing through his brain like gunfire. He jerks upright with a wince, confusion and disorientation clouding his vision for one horrible moment before he remembers where he is and why. His mouth tastes foul and his head is pounding, and he vaguely registers Lestrade’s voice, loud and unfairly shrill in the harsh morning light. It takes an unnatural amount of concentration to focus, and by the time he manages to get himself into a sitting position, John has already slouched through the door, posture miserable and practically radiating discomfort.

Lestrade smirks at him and follows suit, leaving Sherlock alone in the holding cell, head spinning and body unaccountably wobbly. His back aches and his muscles feel tight, and he chokes back the bile that threatens up his esophagus. He stands gingerly and feels the unmistakable scrape of dried come graze across his bollocks, the full reality of last night’s many indiscretions slamming into his consciousness like a runaway lorry. He staggers and sinks back against the thin mattress, his head throbbing with panic and dehydration. _Christ_ , what has he done? He stands again, gravity wavering for one terrifying moment before he regains his balance and pads carefully out of the room.

John is waiting at the desk, collecting their belongings and studiously avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock can feel a lump begin to form in the back of his throat; unspoken emotion and horrifying doubt making his hands shake as he pulls on his coat.

“Well,” John starts awkwardly as they turn to leave. “Thanks for a... you know, an evening...” he trails off, and Sherlock tries hard not to wince as he can feel the resentment and regret rolling off of John in thick waves. He swallows back his own suddenly uncontrollable emotions and grits his teeth.

“It was awful,” Sherlock states flatly, pretending not to notice the way John’s shoulders seem to slump in relief as he realizes Sherlock is not about to make a scene.

“Yeah,” John sighs, his voice blank and hesitant and so utterly, horribly _wrong_. “I was gonna pretend, but it was. _Truly_.”

Sherlock feels his breath hitch, John’s blatant rejection shooting through him like a physical blow. It _hurts_ , and Sherlock grasps for something neutral to focus on, something _normal_ to ground himself.

“That woman, Tessa,” he says, voice sounding remarkably steady and cold. John blinks at him for a split second before he huffs out a muffled: “What?”

“Dated a ghost. Most interesting case for months.” Sherlock can see John’s incredulity out of the corner of his eye and feels a small thrill of malicious triumph. “What a _wasted_ opportunity,” he finishes with emphasis, realizing his double entendre moments after it tumbles out of his still-unsteady mouth.

“...Okay,” John says slowly, clearly unsure and trying to navigate Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock can feel the hard shell of protective instinct beginning to reform around himself as he strides out of the police station, John struggling to catch up as always. The hard knot of rejection is sharpening and curdling into a thick swell of resentment, and Sherlock can feel the contemptuous comments bubbling up the back of his throat, threatening to spill out between them with as much vitriolic spite as he can muster.

Lestrade is standing on the pavement, leaning casually on the open door of the taxi and regarding them both with blatant amusement. John surges past him and ducks into the cab, uncharacteristically cowardly and visibly irritable. Sherlock sighs and glides forward, plastering on his most plastic of fake smiles and dodging around Lestrade’s extended arm.

Lestrade pulls his hand at the last moment and snags the very edge of Sherlock’s shoulder, hauling him back out of the cab and leaning in conspiratorially. “I squared things away this time, but don’t tell John I know about the public indecency charge as well, yeah?” He gives Sherlock a pointed look and drops his voice to a low whisper, “And do _try_ to remember he’s getting married in a month. I know you two have been gagging for it for years, but try to get it out of your system before then and for god’s sake, don’t go getting arrested again.” He winks cheekily and thumps Sherlock twice on the shoulder before turning and walking away, a disgustingly cheerful spring in his step.

Sherlock closes his eyes in mortification and tries to keep the nausea at bay for the time being. He rallies his remaining strength and slides onto the leather seat, avoiding John’s searching look and staring out the window as the taxi pulls away, ignoring the throbbing pain in his temples and trying to find something– _anything_ –to say amid the unbearably awkward silence.

“Listen,” John finally begins after what feels like decades of increasing discomfort. “About last night...” he trails off, and Sherlock can feel the hateful hesitation hovering between them like a fog.

“What about it?” Sherlock says, going for detached disinterest and missing by about a mile. John shifts on the seat, clearly struggling to put an explanation together that won’t compromise his deluded sense of heteronormativity. Sherlock suddenly finds he has zero patience for it all.

“Well, I mean...” John starts again, clearly deciding to soldier on. He takes a deep breath and straightens on the seat, his entire posture suddenly military straight and determined. Sherlock _hates_ it. “Look, what we did–it can’t happen again,” John says, firm tone brooking no argument.

Sherlock weighs his options. In one scenario, he challenges John’s stance on the matter, pointing out that they’ve been dancing around each other for years, the sexual tension between them so sharp and thick that it’s nearly tangible. And then John backs off entirely, retreating into his safe and comfortable life with Mary where Sherlock clearly has no place. Or he could ignore his own desires–and John’s as well–and pretend that nothing is wrong, allowing John to maintain his fantasy of a ‘normal life’ where Sherlock is just his best friend and they mean nothing more to each other than business partners.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, John,” Sherlock says coolly, keeping his face averted towards the window and surreptitiously watching in the reflection as John’s shoulders slump in relief. The metaphorical knife in Sherlock’s gut twists at the sight, but he steels his own resolve and directs his thoughts towards the next month and how he’s supposed to remain distant when all he can think of is the taste of John’s skin, the sound of his gasping breath, the feeling of him, hard and hot in Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock shifts and clears his throat, suddenly aware of the tightness in his own trousers, of the itchy, sticky feeling of congealed semen stretching and pulling as his penis begins to plump with blood. This is absolutely not the time for such thoughts, and Sherlock clamps brutally down on his own wayward thoughts.

“I’m going to need computers,” he says instead, pleased with how steady his voice sounds. John’s head whips around and he stares incredulously at Sherlock for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry?” John says, confusion clear in every syllable.

“Laptops. Many of them. Do _try_ to be useful, John,” Sherlock bites out, pulling his coat imperiously around his hips and effectively hiding his embarrassing reaction.

“Computers. Right,” John says, sounding bewildered, but determined, as though he’s finally realizing that the disastrous row he was anticipating is no longer a threat. “I’ll need to go home first,” he adds quietly.

“No time, John,” Sherlock intones. John sighs and rolls his eyes, but Sherlock can see the slight quirk of his lips as he turns towards the opposite window. Sherlock takes it as a victory and tries not to think about the warm, contented feeling spreading unwelcome through his chest.

It doesn’t work.

: :

The sitting room at Baker Street is beginning to look like a bridal magazine explosion. There are seating charts and fabric swatches, flower arrangements and stationery, guest lists and flight plans, and one consulting detective-cum-wedding planner sitting in the center of it all among thirty-four perfectly folded table serviettes.

Sherlock sighs and shakes out one white swathe of fabric, pressing against the creases with his thumb until the wrinkles loosen their hold and concede to the pull of gravity. The pale square of material looks disturbingly like surrender, and Sherlock forcibly steers his thoughts away from the idea that he’s losing John in any way. John has been adamantly clear about sharing his time equally, and although the notion of _sharing_ John at all makes Sherlock’s stomach turn, he’s not fool enough to push lest he lose John completely. Mary herself had agreed to let them go just yesterday–Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson: taking to the streets for adventure and mystery! It sounds like a cheap detective novel and Sherlock rolls his eyes at his own dramatics.

There are cases, and there is take-away, and there is wedding planning and RSVPs, and there is the constant strain of sexual tension between Sherlock and John. It used to be mostly ignorable, but there is no chance of that now. Not now that Sherlock can practically taste John’s heated sweat on his skin, can hear the breathy undertone every time their eyes catch; now that he cannot look at John without seeing his face twisted and damp, hear his pleading cries as Sherlock brings him closer and closer to orgasm.

Mary watches the two of them with an expression of mild amusement, and Sherlock tries valiantly to dismiss the air of smug perceptiveness she shoots at him whenever John’s back is turned. She corners him one morning, John in the sitting room and staring blankly at the seating diagram.

“So,” she starts, hitching a hip on the kitchen table and blocking his strategic exit. “What exactly happened at the stag do?” Her constant amusement is almost unbearable and Sherlock can feel the damning flush that rises slightly up the back of his neck. He turns to the kettle instead, filling it with precision before resting it gently on its base and clicking it on.

“I could tell you,” he says mildly, shooting her a sidelong glance and a smirk intended to be playful, and hoping dearly that he is projecting his usual suave grace, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

She scoffs and titters a cheerful laugh, but her eyes are sparkling dangerously with what Sherlock now recognizes is jealous understanding. “But seriously,” she says after it’s clear Sherlock is not going to continue on his own. “Ever since last week you two have been... _off_ somehow.”

“Off where?” John cuts in, completely oblivious and stepping cleanly between them before moving towards the cupboard for some crockery. Mary stares hard at his back before turning her gaze towards Sherlock, an edge of something dark and threatening that Sherlock has never seen before, though her expression remains clear and pleasant.

“Off your rocker, you are,” Mary jokes, and John snorts out a little laugh, sliding his hand around her hip and drawing her in for a quick kiss before setting the three mugs down onto the worktop and heading towards the bathroom.

Sherlock feels his stomach drop at the show of simple domesticity. He turns back to the kettle, desperate to delete the image of John’s lips pressed against the corner of her mouth, but it remains stubbornly there: burned into the back of his retinas like a brand. He can feel the bile begin to rise up the back of his throat and hastily sets about making tea, clanging cups and spoons around on a tray, all the while feeling Mary’s eyes on the back of his head.

John pads back through the kitchen, grabbing the tray with a quick smile of thanks, catching Mary’s hand as he passes and pulling her through to the sitting room. Sherlock is left alone in the kitchen, fingers tingling as he grips the edge of the sink hard enough to bruise.

: :

Two days later and Sherlock is still miserable and petulant, fighting off the urge to simply give in to distraction and text some of his long-silent acquaintances. There’s no case, nothing on, and the tedium of everyday life is chipping away at his calm facade like hail on a newly painted house. His flat is overrun with images and reminders of how much John Watson does not, in fact, belong to him, and Sherlock wonders at his own apparent masochism.

He dimly considers burning it all in a fit of melodrama, but decides that the aftermath would well outweigh the momentary satisfaction. Mary’s knowing gaze keeps haunting his thoughts, niggling at the back of his conscience like a mouth sore. Every time his mind pauses on her reactions, on her darkly possessive look from beneath her eyelashes, he forces himself to retreat, knowing that dissecting her person will only lead to doubt and ultimate loss of John.

He’s aware of the tension between them; the growing unease of two people who should be happily making plans for their bright future together, but it seems like every time he sees John and Mary in the same room, they’re either all hands and sickeningly sweet displays of saccharine affection, or abrupt, curt glances that speak volumes, but say nothing at all. It’s infuriating and absurd, but Sherlock cannot allow himself the luxury of _hope_.

He can already feel the creeping guilt swallowing him from the inside out; all of his jealous, malicious thoughts coagulating into one harsh, brutal reality: whatever is going on between John and the future Mrs Watson, it has absolutely nothing to do with him, and wishing Mary ill will do nothing but distance himself from John.

If he forces John to choose, the likely outcome will not be in his favor.

The bang of the outer door is entirely unexpected, and Sherlock is startled to realize it is now completely dark outside the windows. He listens for the telltale buzz of the doorbell, but hears the lock scrape instead. He sits up, expecting Mrs Hudson or even Mycroft, but the footsteps are too quick, too heavy and it takes him a full five seconds to realize exactly who is stomping up the stairs. He barely has time to brace himself before the door swings open, John’s agitated figure hulking in the doorway for a single heartbeat before he is across the room and on Sherlock without even a word of acknowledgement.

Sherlock reels back, John’s lips hard and demanding on his own, his muffled protest lost against the slide of John’s tongue, the scrape of his teeth. John’s hands are damp with rain, chilled with residual momentum and completely unapologetic as they push up under Sherlock’s shirt, causing gooseflesh to rise in their wake. Sherlock shivers and jerks back, pushing ineffectually on John’s shoulders as he tries to process what exactly is happening. John just growls and grabs him tighter; moving to Sherlock’s neck and trailing a series of increasingly hard bites down to his collarbone.

Sherlock tries to resist, tries to remind himself that he was not going to allow this to happen anymore; that being John’s second choice is not something he needs to tolerate, but John is overpowering and aggressive and Sherlock can feel his resolve crumbling with each lingering caress. John groans and pushes him back, fingers biting into muscle and tendon, and Sherlock feels himself falling, sucked into the chasm from which there is likely no return.

He goes down willingly, straight back onto the sofa, clutching at John’s shoulders like a drowning man, and that’s exactly how he feels. Sherlock’s head is spinning and his body is tingling, heart rate dangerously high and nearly suffocating from lack of oxygen as he tries to remember how to breathe around the tension in his chest. John lands on top of him, heavy and hard and Sherlock arches into him, afraid of his own reactions. He is worryingly close to losing all control and as John’s hips push down harshly, the hard ridge of his cock digging aggressively into Sherlock’s hip, something in the darkest corner of Sherlock’s brain finally snaps him back into awareness.

“John,” he gasps, trying to push John upright, to regain some farce of control. John just grunts and pushes at him harder. Sherlock can feel capillaries breaking, feel the damning bruises forming already, feel the way his skin is marking and coloring with irreversible proof of John’s adultery. He twists painfully and manages to get a shoulder under and against John’s sternum. He shoves, _hard_ , and John stumbles back, barely missing the corner of the coffee table as he sprawls in an undignified heap onto the floor.

“What the _fuck_?” John demands, expression contorted in anger and confusion. Sherlock takes a deep breath and steels himself, feeling the adrenaline fade into something disturbingly like betrayal. He sits up slowly, pulling his rumpled jacket around his shoulders and putting himself back together as calmly as he can, though his hands are shaking incriminatingly and his breath is still coming in short, ragged pants. He can still feel John’s hands on him, still feel the way his pulse is racing, frantic and aroused and slightly, shamefully afraid. John is glaring at him in indignant confusion, his face flushed and belligerent, but Sherlock can see the cracks in the bravado; can see where anger and spite give way to hurt and turmoil.

“John, what’s happened?” Sherlock asks, absurdly proud of the way his voice comes out steady and reasonable. John just blinks at him from the rug, a myriad of emotions passing over his face as Sherlock watches with increasing tension. Finally, John stiffens and pulls himself upright, straightening his clothes as he manages to stumble to his feet.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking guilty and so lost Sherlock feels his own heart clench in empathy. “I just–I needed to get out, y’know?” John peers imploringly at Sherlock from beneath his eyelashes and Sherlock cannot stop himself from rising and going to him, enveloping him in long arms and steady strength, feeling all the pent-up anger and confusion seeping out of John’s shoulders as he clutches him tighter to his chest. 

“She’s driving me mad,” John says eventually, words barely audible as they muffle against Sherlock’s sternum. Sherlock feels as though there’s an iron band squeezing ever tighter around his ribs, a tourniquet of emotion cutting off his usual reason and surety. It’s entirely unwelcome, but Sherlock is becoming strangely used to the feeling. It’s the same unsettled feeling he’d had for two solid years away; that sick, swooping sensation of missing a riser while racing down a staircase, of constant scrutiny and hostility because the one person he trusted was no longer there to watch his back.

John tenses for a moment longer before melting against Sherlock’s chest, his arms coming up around Sherlock’s back and clutching at him tightly. Sherlock can feel John shaking, and recognizes the tense, halted breathing of someone trying very hard to hold themselves together, and he feels his own emotions rise in sympathy. Without his permission, Sherlock’s hands begin gently stroking along John’s spine, rubbing at the bunched muscle until he feels them loosening, John’s hitching breath giving way to muffled gasps and Sherlock is startled to realize he feels a distinct wetness against his own collarbone.

“John,” he breathes into sandy grey hair, and he can feel John shudder against him. Sherlock is momentarily lost, adrift in uncertainty and hesitation, feeling powerless as this strong, capable man is breaking apart in his very hands.

“Christ, I missed you so much,” John whispers, his fingers digging into the back of Sherlock’s jacket as though he’s looking for some way to anchor himself. Sherlock holds him tighter, his own emotion rising infuriatingly to match John’s obvious distress.

“I’m here, John,” he murmurs, trying to convey calm and soothing, though he knows he is the world’s least appropriate person to be comforting John in this scenario.

“You were gone,” John gasps, his hands fisting hard enough to tear. “You were _gone_ , and I _loved_ you, and I was so alone and there she was like an angel from heaven, and all I could think of was how alone I felt and how much I missed you and how I didn’t want to _do_ this anymore.” John is splitting apart at the seams and Sherlock can do nothing but hold on and listen, so he buries his fingers in John’s hair and rubs gentle fingertips along his scalp, feeling every second of those two years stretching and widening between them, but John doesn’t seem to be able to stop. “And she was sweet and kind, and she didn’t mind my occasional temper, and she loved me without reservation or judgment and she was _different_ , so different, and I thought I could do it. I really thought I could, but now you’re _back_ , and I _want_ you just as much as I always have, and it’s not _fair_.”

The words seem to dry up and peter off in the end, John just mumbling half-formed curses and garbled explanations, and Sherlock feels empty and caved in; as though his chest has expanded and crashed again like a dying star, leaving behind something cold and small and utterly desolate.

“I’m sorry, John,” he stutters out, knowing the words are insufficient, but unable to think of a single thing to say. John is shaking in his arms, trembling like a leaf on a dead tree and Sherlock knows it is utterly shit timing, but he cannot help but brush a small kiss to the warm skin of John’s forehead, loving him with such ferocity that he’s honestly worried that his heart will explode within his chest. John blinks up at him through damp lashes, and he looks so beautiful in that moment that Sherlock knows he is well and truly fucked in every sense of the word.

He dips his head and presses his lips to John’s in apology, in sadness, in overwhelming need and desire and benediction. John kisses him back, and it feels like a promise, like hope and love and connection and everything Sherlock’s been missing in his life and more. John’s hands slide up his shoulders and neck, bracketing Sherlock’s jaw between his palms and he deepens the kiss, coaxing out sounds Sherlock didn’t think himself capable of. John huffs a small chuckle into his mouth, but Sherlock is so beyond dignity it doesn’t even register. He kisses John desperately, trying to communicate without words how he felt for those terrible years on his own.

Sherlock recalls dank alleyways, bleeding from wounds he didn’t have time to patch up, utterly lost without his doctor. He remembers derelict rooms where the echoing silence was nearly deafening, his words trailing off as he realized there was nobody there to tell him he was brilliant or amazing or to nag him to eat or sleep. He remembers waking up in empty, miserable buildings with loneliness so acute, all he could do was curl in on himself and pray to a god he didn’t believe in that John would be safe for one more day. He thinks about seeing John again; finally for the first time in what felt like generations, only to find him entirely moved on, about to be engaged to Mary Morstan, the woman who took his place when he wasn’t even around to defend it.

John groans against his tongue, fingers scrabbling across cotton and wool, tugging at Sherlock’s clothing and effectively bringing him back to the present, where John is _here_ and _his_. He reaches for John’s belt, wanting nothing more than to be naked and pressed as closely to John as humanly possible; to lose himself in the slide of skin, in the give of John’s body, in the achingly wonderful feeling of John in and around him.

“Take me to bed, John,” he murmurs, the words making his already-flushed face heat with embarrassed arousal. John’s eyes are dark and heavy with unspoken sentiment, and he studies Sherlock for what seems like an eternity before nodding once and reaching forward to tug Sherlock across the sitting room and into his bedroom.

He folds Sherlock gently onto the mattress, peeling away clothing and doubt; replacing fabric and trepidation with lips and tongue. Sherlock can feel himself falling, feel the way his entire universe seems to shatter and reform around John’s presence. Sherlock arches and writhes, helpless in the tide of emotion as he drowns in John.

When John finally slides against him, skin to skin with no barriers in between, Sherlock knows his poor, stilted heart is irrevocably given over. “John,” he pants, choking back the mortifying tears that are threatening up the back of his throat.

“Shh,” John soothes, lips reverent and soft against the pale skin of his neck. “I’ve got you. I’ll never let you go.” And Sherlock believes it.

John’s fingers are gentle and exploratory, ghosting over Sherlock’s sensitive skin with clear intent. Sherlock shivers and allows himself to fall, knowing John won’t let him crash. He nods wordlessly and shifts, spreading his legs and feeling nothing but exhilaration as John settles between them, all hard muscle and soft skin and Sherlock is lost. John rocks carefully, hesitation and wonder etched all along his weathered face, and Sherlock reaches up to trace the lines of worry and regret, smoothing them away with acceptance and forgiveness. John’s breath hitches and he moves again with steady purpose, rubbing his cock along the sweaty crease of Sherlock’s groin, and it’s suddenly not enough.

Sherlock reaches over to the bedside table and rummages for a moment, picking his way through the usual detritus until his fingers close around the cool plastic bottle of lubricant. John’s face clears into obvious disbelief for a few breathless heartbeats before his eyes glaze over into hunger and need. He devours Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss laced with so much heat and yearning, Sherlock feels it all the way down into his toes.

“Please, John,” Sherlock whispers, half afraid of his own need, of the consequences of wanting something this badly when he knows John is not entirely his to take. John kisses him fiercely, all the pent-up arousal and heated longing sparking between them like a lit fuse.

“You’re sure?” he asks lightly, trailing wet kisses down Sherlock’s jaw and across his Adam’s apple. Sherlock nods, unable to form a coherent thought beyond _yes_ and _here_ and _now._ John’s fingers are tentative and careful, slipping against his skin already slick with lubricant and sweat. Sherlock arches into them, feeling as John’s index skims along the tightly furled skin of his anus, wanting to push himself down, to impale himself on John’s thick fingers; to have John _take_ him and _claim_ him so they can never be separated again.

John’s finger slips in on a heavy exhale, and Sherlock feels it like a brand: hot and searing and utterly brilliant. Sherlock’s back twists, his chest feeling too tight, his heart pounding so hard he’s worried it will simply beat directly out of his chest, tearing ribs and muscle apart to lay itself spent at John’s feet.

“Jesus _Christ_ , you’re fucking beautiful,” John growls, reaching into him again, with two fingers this time, and Sherlock can feel all of his carefully constructed walls crumbling to dust. John stretches and opens him, gently working his body with a skill Sherlock doesn’t want to acknowledge, only allowing his mind to still, for his body to _feel_.

John’s lips trail soft, glorious kisses down his collar bone, over the swell of his pectoral, tongue flicking out to circle around one taut nipple, and Sherlock can feel his body throbbing with sensation; unfamiliar emotion and pleasure releasing into his bloodstream on a heavy rush of endorphins.

“John, _god_ ,” Sherlock pants, his voice shaky and ruined. John smiles up at him through darkened eyes, closing his lips around Sherlock’s nipple and pulling. Sherlock’s back arches off the bed, John’s teeth grazing along his flesh and it feels like fire racing all down his spine. Sherlock becomes uncomfortably aware of his stiffened erection, sticky fluid leaking from the tip, and he’s fairly certain he’s never been this hard in his life.

He rocks his hips up in involuntary invitation and feels the groan as it rumbles up through John’s chest, across his ribs and into his very core. John curls his fingers, brushing intently across Sherlock’s prostate and it feels like an electric current; shocks of liquid pleasure sparking all along Sherlock’s skin, his spine twisting and writhing as he tries to get more contact.

“Easy,” John whispers, lips blazing trails of fire down Sherlock’s abdomen and Sherlock becomes abruptly aware of his own hands fisted tightly into the bed sheets, his fingers cramping and sore where he’s twisted the material into sweaty ropes. He releases them slowly, feeling as the blood rushes back into his hands, the tingling, searing sensation of circulation nearly distracting him from the feeling of John’s lips grazing over the trail of dark hair that leads from his navel.

“John–!” he gasps, teetering on the brink of oblivion. John just grins up at him, fingers still moving lazily in and out of his body as he breathes a steady stream of hot air across the exposed glans of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock can feel himself spiralling out of control, his orgasm curling dangerously close at the base of his spine. John’s tongue snakes out, licking a warm, wet stripe from his testicles to his frenulum, and Sherlock chokes back a heavy moan.

He finds his fingers curled tightly into the back of John’s hair, pulling probably too hard as he wavers between pushing John’s mouth _down_ and yanking him away. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to regulate his breathing, feeling John’s exhale brush across the slick skin of his penis and knowing if he doesn’t get John inside him soon, this will all be devastatingly over before it actually begins. He blinks his eyes open to regard John and finds him smiling up at him, mouth poised over the head of his cock and he nearly loses it right then and there. He watches as a thick bead of pre-come seeps up out of his slit and rolls heavily over the side of his shaft, John’s tongue darting out to chase it across his skin and it’s too much.

“Don’t–” Sherlock says tightly, every single muscle clenched against his impending climax. John’s eyes widen in understanding and he licks his lips obscenely, relenting with a wicked smirk and crawling up Sherlock’s body to claim his mouth instead. Sherlock sinks into the kiss, pouring all of his desire into the slide of his tongue against John’s, nipping at John’s bottom lip as he pulls away.

John shifts his weight, slipping his fingers out and away, and Sherlock feels momentarily bereft, but he tamps the feeling down in favor of arching forward, rubbing his body all across John’s in a slick slide of promise and heat. John groans and shifts again, and Sherlock can finally feel the blunt head of John’s cock: thick and heavy and almost unbearably hot skimming along the stretched skin of his hole. It feels deliciously dangerous, and Sherlock wraps his long legs around John’s hips, encouraging him to slide forward and finally take what he wants.

“Sherlock,” John groans, and Sherlock can feel the very tip of John push into him slowly before he pulls infuriatingly back again. The truly embarrassing keening noise that comes out of Sherlock’s throat is entirely involuntary and he can feel himself cringing away from the mortifying knowledge that he’s laid so incredibly bare before this man, but there’s a desperation tinging everything with red-hot need and he’s startled to realize he doesn’t particularly care as long as John just _moves_.

“Sherlock,” John says again, and he sounds about as wrecked as Sherlock feels himself. “I don’t have a condom.” Sherlock freezes entirely; a cold, horrible feeling sinking down into his gut. He’s dimly aware that he’s stopped breathing and heaves in a lungful of air, gasping around the devastating realization that he doesn’t have any either.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, curling a hand around the back of John’s neck and bringing their foreheads together, closing his eyes around the monumental grief he can feel sliding through his very skin. “ _Please_ , John. I’m clean, I promise. I don’t care. Just– _please_.”

John visibly wavers, his whole body twitching and shifting subconsciously forward until he grunts a ragged “ _fuck it”_ against Sherlock’s lips and pushes inside in one glorious, stretching slide. Sherlock cries out and arches back, his entire body clenching down and squeezing around the intrusion. John huffs an absurd apology into his neck and begins to pull away, but Sherlock locks his ankles around his iliac crest and pulls him in tighter, ignoring the pain in favor of the delicious friction and the knowledge that John is finally, blessedly _inside_ him in this most primal of ways. Sherlock revels in the stretch, in the mild discomfort as pain laces up through the pleasure, John’s cock far thicker than two of his beautiful fingers and he holds John there, cradled within his body as he forcibly relaxes his muscles into compliance.

John huffs a parody of a laugh into his mouth and shakes his head fondly, holding remarkably still as Sherlock’s body adjusts. “God, you’re incredible,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer. “So tight and gorgeous, and entirely _mine_.”

Sherlock feels a thrill of arousal shudder down his spine at John’s clearly possessive tone, his own desire reflected in the heat of John’s gaze. He swallows back half a dozen embarrassing admissions and draws John forward for a kiss instead, feeling his own desperation countered by the way John’s teeth dig into his bottom lip and pull.

“Christ,” John grunts, his hips twitching as Sherlock’s body instinctively tightens. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I _need_ to move.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, his body already craving more. John pulls back slowly, and Sherlock cannot help the curl of his spine as every inch of John’s cock slides tantalizingly against the stretched rim of his anus. It feels deliciously filthy and Sherlock arches again, chasing John’s cock as it retreats from him before pushing forward just as carefully. It’s too slow and too gentle, John clearly trying to make up for his earlier instinctive carelessness, but Sherlock is through with being careful. He slides his hands down John’s sweat-slick back to grip at two lush swells of arsecheek and _pulls_ , guiding John into a deeper, faster rhythm.

John grunts against his sternum, hips already following Sherlock’s guide seemingly without John’s consent, but he nips approvingly at Sherlock’s clavicle and Sherlock can feel that his own grin isn’t entirely tame. He bucks up against John’s hips, fucking himself farther and faster on John’s cock, writhing in pleasure as John’s thrusts brush accidentally against his prostate.

“ _God_ ,” John groans and speeds up, each thrust jarring and forceful, and Sherlock allows his head to fall back to the mattress with a muffled thunk, every nerve in his body seeming to contract and expand in tandem with his racing pulse. John smoothes one hand up, lacing their fingers together and pushing their joined hands up over Sherlock’s head to brace against the pillows. The feeling is shockingly intimate, and Sherlock feels the unwelcome swell of emotion threaten up in his chest again.

Sherlock arcs his neck up and takes a kiss, sliding his tongue along John’s in an achingly tender move completely incongruous to the rest of their bodies’ frantic gallop towards completion. He breaks away on a gasp as John angles his hips up, nudging at Sherlock’s knee until he slides it up over one sturdy shoulder, the change in angle perfect as John strokes against his prostate with every brutal push.

Sherlock releases the headboard and slides his hand down over his own heaving abdomen to curl tightly around his cock, tugging and jerking in time with John’s increasingly rough thrusts.

“You,” John pants into his mouth, “ _Always_ you.”

And it’s finally enough. With one great, heaving breath Sherlock starts to come. His skin feels too tight, too hot, his limbs locking up as pleasure seizes him; heat like fire licking up his muscles as they clench in rhythm with each throbbing pulse of ejaculate. John fucks him through it, his pace slowing a little to allow for Sherlock’s thrashing body to calm before he sinks in further, pulling his body upright and physically yanking Sherlock down onto his cock three more times before he stills completely; tendons straining all along his neck as his teeth clench on a hard exhale.

It’s the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen, and he feels his cock jerk feebly once more, a small dribble of come leaking out of his swollen slit to join the rest of the mess spattered across his heaving diaphragm.

They pause there, panting for a few seconds, John’s eyes shut tightly in agonized bliss before he blinks his eyes open and gives Sherlock a lazy smile full of self-satisfaction and satiation. Sherlock feels his own face split into answering grin and clenches his exhausted muscles down, causing John to jump as his overstimulated cock is squeezed again. Sherlock bites his bottom lip and smirks, feigning innocence as John huffs out a breathless, incredulous laugh.

“You,” John pants, “are bloody impossible.” Sherlock just grins wider, feeling entirely sated and calm for the first time since he’s returned. He arches his back in a deep stretch, disgruntled when John’s softening penis slides out of him in a slick rush of come and lube. He grimaces slightly, but settles again as John draws back carefully, extracting himself from the tangle of Sherlock’s overlong limbs before crawling up the bed and flopping gracelessly down.

Sherlock finds his mind is completely quiet, for once; the constant buzz of endless activity drowned out by sexual release. It’s wonderful and terrifying and completely novel, and he turns his head to stare at John’s profile, relaxed and drowsy next to him in what will now and forever be known as _their_ bed. The thought makes something warm and tentative uncurl beneath his solar plexus, and Sherlock feels his lips stretch into an easy, honest smile.

John shifts closer, grinning and rolling onto his side, sliding an arm over Sherlock’s skin only to pull back with a look of comical horror as his hand smears through the mess on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock begins laughing, and once he starts, he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. John looks mildly chagrined for a moment longer before his high-pitched giggles join in with the rumbling tenor of Sherlock’s low chuckles.

“I’ll be right back,” John huffs out finally, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and making his way to the toilet on shaky legs. Sherlock watches him go, his heart brimming with so much emotion he’s worried he might actually be leaking all over the sheets. John returns moments later with a damp flannel, kneeling on the side of the bed and dabbing gently at the come on Sherlock’s abdomen, placing small, lingering kisses on every inch of newly-cleaned skin. Sherlock can feel his body responding, mild arousal beginning to seep through his veins again, but exhaustion is pulling at the edges of his consciousness.

John licks a path up to his neck, teeth gently scraping at an already purpling bite mark. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, catching John’s soft expression as he gazes down at Sherlock’s sated form and returns the look with interest. John smiles down at him for a few more seconds before his face falls a little, regret and apology etching its way across his brow.

“I should probably...” he trails off, glancing down at where his hand is splayed possessively across Sherlock’s left pectoral.

“Stay,” Sherlock says, quiet and satiated and horribly, honestly vulnerable. John smiles a little and dips his head for a gentle kiss, lips moving with careful deliberation. He relaxes back onto the sheets, tugging the duvet up from the foot of the bed before curling around Sherlock and sliding a heavy arm across his middle, and Sherlock feels like his chest is expanding exponentially; each soft sigh a promise, each brush of lips a vow.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock says quietly, reaching out a long arm and clicking off the lamp. He gets a soft snore in response, and allows his own eyes to finally close as he sinks gently into sleep.

: :

: :  
Sherlock wakes slowly, the dawn light creeping around the edges of his vision and making his head ache with disorientation. His mouth is dry and his eyes seem glued shut, but memories of last night begin reforming and solidifying, and he can feel a quiet smile begin curling up the edges of his lips. He rolls to the side, intending to smother John in as many limbs as he’s able, but the bed is empty beside him, sheets cool and wrinkled. Sherlock forces his eyes open, gummy moisture ripping a few lashes out as he blinks at the twisted cotton. He can feel the panic begin to seep forward and his heart begins to pound even as he registers sounds of movement from the kitchen.

The door creaks open softly and John pads his way through, fully dressed and obviously showered; the tips of his hair still damp and clumping together in endearing little spikes. The relief is crippling, and Sherlock forces his pulse to slow down as John creeps into the room, clearly trying to be quiet and failing miserably. He makes his way to the bedside table and locates his wallet, slipping it into his pocket and turning back as though to leave again. Sherlock smiles and rolls towards him, allowing the sheet to slide down over his shoulder.

“Oh,” John says softly, as though he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be waiting for him in bed, naked and pliant and still mussed from the previous evening’s activities. “I’m sorry, I--” he cuts himself off, looking embarrassed and oddly guilty. It’s the guilt that makes Sherlock pause, self-consciousness and embarrassment coloring his own cheeks. He pulls the sheet up his chest as surreptitiously as he can, suddenly and acutely aware of how naked he is beneath the flimsy cotton.

John blushes again and averts his eyes, shifting his weight uncomfortably and rubbing at the back of his neck in a clearly lost gesture that makes something hard and cold sink into Sherlock’s gut.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” John says finally, his voice still too soft and too contrite and too unbearably _wrong_.

“You’re leaving,” Sherlock says, his voice flat and cold even to his own ears. John raises his face finally and catches Sherlock’s eye, all stammering apology and deeply-etched regret, and Sherlock feels the warm, tentative hope in his chest shrivel and freeze.

“Yeah,” John says then bites his bottom lip absently. There’s a dark bruise poking out just past the barrier of John’s shirt collar that’s the exact imprint of Sherlock’s teeth, and he suddenly feels wrenched apart. “I’ve got to get back,” John continues, gesturing vaguely towards the hall, his shoes just visible beyond the door. “I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re, y’know, alright,” he falters, his cheeks deepening to a dark and unflattering pink.

“Back,” Sherlock echoes, his voice hollow and blank. John shifts again, the fingers of his left hand clenching systematically. He looks as though he wants nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow him whole, and Sherlock briefly wonders if this is what dying feels like.

“Mary’s texted,” John says by way of explanation, and her very name in this room feels like a death knoll.

“You’re going back,” Sherlock repeats, as though if he says it enough times, it might make the slightest bit of sense. Visions of last night are chasing through his brain: John stretched out on top of him, hungry and wanting, telling him with words and actions that he belongs _here_ , with Sherlock, that John is _his_. Why then is he leaving now to go back to _her_?

“Sherlock,” John sighs, and he finally edges closer to the bed, sitting down on the side of the mattress and hitching his knee up. Sherlock can feel the blankets shifting, sheets pulling and straining across his body where John’s weight pins them down. It feels suddenly claustrophobic and constricting and he struggles against them for a moment before he finally rips himself free, launching himself over the side of the bed and shivering as the cool air stings along his skin.

“Christ,” John murmurs, and averts his gaze again; away from Sherlock’s naked form, a ridiculous blush staining his ears crimson. Sherlock feels as though John’s punched him in the chest, all the air whooshing from his lungs in one great rush, rejection clawing through his ribs and causing him to tremble where he stands, entirely bare in the harsh morning light.

“John,” he grates out in as reasonable a tone as he can muster, refusing to feel self-conscious in his own bedroom with his _lover_ who can’t even seem to look him in the eye. John just clears his throat awkwardly and stands, weight shifting again as he fidgets.

“Look, I have to go,” he says eventually, his voice taking on a decidedly hard quality that Sherlock doesn’t like at all. He steps forward, but freezes instantly as John backs quickly away, holding his arm out to the side as though warding Sherlock off. “I’ll text you later, yeah?” And he’s out the door.

Sherlock can hear him shuffling his shoes on, quick and even footsteps cascading down the stairs and out into the city, carrying him as far away from Sherlock as fast as he can go. Sherlock’s knees give way and he sinks to the floor, all the strength and tentative happiness sucked out of him as the door gently snicks shut.

He’s honestly not sure how long he lets himself stay there: knelt on the floor and dumbstruck, rejection and despair slicing through him like tiny, icy knives. How could he have let himself fall this far without any indication of a soft landing? What good is his deductive prowess if he can’t even sort out his own fruitless emotions?

Forcing himself steady, Sherlock eventually stands and makes his way to the bath, intending to wash away any and all evidence of John’s apparently hollow affections. He scrubs harshly at his skin, imagining the layers of cells and DNA scraping away. He feels like he’s peeling back muscle and tendon, every area where John had touched him hot and damning; every filthy stain a condemnation, every bruise an odium.

It takes an unhealthy amount of time for the water to run clear, and even longer before Sherlock finally admits that he will likely never feel clean again.

: :

Sherlock takes a drag of the almost spent fag and watches as the smoke billows out into the wind; twining and curling into shapes and figures before drifting out over London, adding to the residual haze that seems to hang like a shroud over his once-beloved city.

There’s a persistent ache that seems to intensify every time Sherlock allows his thoughts to bend in one particular direction, his fingers twitching even as he flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette. There’s a tic in his brain that refuses to allow him to move forward, his entire mind shying away from the unwelcome and unfamiliar _feelings_ that will not be deleted, no matter how hard he tries. It’s a constant and almost physical presence now: this swallowing chasm that seems to ebb and flow beneath his ribs every time he thinks of John.

John Watson: the impossible man who was never meant to be, escaping from death on Afghanistan sand only to drift into Sherlock’s life with a false limp and military precision, rearranging entire wings of Sherlock’s mind palace without even a backward glance, and making Sherlock suddenly yearn for things he’s never had the time for in the past. It was never meant to be like this, and Sherlock feels the harsh knot of spite and resentment grow unchallenged in his gut.

The cigarette burns down to the filter and Sherlock lights another, hanging out the familiar window of 221B, his dressing gown trailing off of one shoulder as he breathes in the smoke and carcinogens. He stoutly refuses to miss John. It’s his own fault for letting this situation get so horrendously out of control, and he intends to keep John firmly at arm’s length until the entire atrocity blows over. The ache in his chest redoubles and he feels the tightness closing in; suppressed memories of torture and stubborn endurance raging up through his mind. He had kept himself going, kept himself alive and fighting for two solid years away because he knew when he got back, John would be here to help pick up his pieces, as he always had in the past.

Never had he anticipated John moving on; effectively forgetting him like yesterday’s rubbish. It hurts in ways Sherlock hadn’t expected and now he only has to look around the empty flat and his whole chest feels like it’s caving in. Sherlock sucks hard on the end of the cigarette, watching as the paper flares red for a moment before he feels the acrid smoke fill his lungs, every delicious mouthful killing him far too slowly to matter.

He needs to put a stop to this madness, to cut himself off entirely and cauterize the wound before it infects any more of his life. If John doesn’t want him, he has no reason to keep pining after the man like a lovesick teenager. He only has to hold on for one more week. Seven days, and then he can let John go.

: :

The wedding is lovely. Everyone applauds Sherlock’s careful and meticulous planning; praising everything from the flower arrangements to the best man speech and Sherlock feels utterly sick. He makes a tragically plebeian mistake and allows his attention to wander–gets caught up in the way John looks at him with soft affection and warm regard and feels as though everything might possibly turn out alright. But then there is an attempted murder and a victim and Sherlock is brilliant and clever and John looks at him with want and possessiveness and Sherlock feels as though he is drowning. John moves towards him, all heat and pride and Sherlock can feel himself sway forward, the enormous pull of John’s will overriding his own for a split second. Mary intercepts them, casually slipping her hand into John’s and tugging him away, all the while regarding Sherlock with a knowing and dangerous eye.

Sherlock feels his hands trembling as he steps away from the scene, Major Sholto’s injury pulling all the focus from him and allowing him to slink silently down the hall. He pushes his way out the back doors of the building, feeling like he’s suffocating and desperate for some space. He finds Janine leaning casually over the balcony, thumbing something on her phone, her dark hair blowing gently in the light breeze and he thinks she might be beautiful. He sidles up to her and leans over the railing himself, digging in his pocket for the emergency cigarettes he had the brilliant forethought to bring.

“Those things’ll kill you, y’know,” Janine says lightly, eyeing him with far too much perception.

Sherlock huffs out a humorless laugh and holds the pack out to her. She studies it carefully before extracting a slim white stick and placing it delicately between her lips. Sherlock cups his hand and flicks his lighter, waiting for her deep inhalation before pulling the flame away and lighting his own. Janine turns and leans one hip against the banister, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a luxurious drag, exhaling the smoke in a steady stream as she contemplates him intently.

“You’re an interesting man, Sherlock Holmes,” she says eventually, sucking on the end of her fag and tilting her head knowingly. Sherlock sighs and flicks the ash off the end of his own, inhaling deeply and revelling in the burn. He glances towards her and exhales slowly, allowing the smoke to curl through the air and wrap around them both like a cloud of secrecy.

“And what, pray tell, is so interesting about me?” he asks dully, his voice tired and resigned.

“Oh, lots of things,” she says with a smirk, dragging her thumb nail across her bottom lip in a move clearly designed to play to his baser instincts–if his baser instincts were inclined in that direction, that is. Her flirtatious look falls away abruptly and she gazes at him with cool confidence, the giggly, coy persona melting away to reveal someone much more interesting.

“You’re in love with him,” she says coolly, the sure, matter-of-fact quality taking him utterly by surprise. He’s so startled he forgets to school his face, his usual defenses already weakened by the stress of the day. Instead he sighs and takes another drag, watching the way she’s studying him out of his peripheral vision.

“Oh Sherl,” she tuts, tapping the end of her cigarette and turning to lean on the banister next to him, nudging him with her shoulder and smiling sadly at him through her lashes. “That’s a lost cause, I’m afraid.”

“ _’Sherl’_?” he says derisively, ignoring her pointed look and snorting as he takes another drag. She laughs softly; a tinkling, merry little sound that has the corners of his lips quirking up before he can stop them. She gazes at him steadily for a few beats before tossing the end of her spent fag over the edge of the banister, watching as it hits the pavement below and bursts into millions of tiny sparks.

“Well, as I see it you’ve two options,” she says, suddenly business like and professional, and Sherlock finds himself intrigued despite himself. “One: you go on as you are, pining and frankly pathetic.” She ignores Sherlock’s glare and raises her eyebrow pointedly at him. He concedes her point with a shrug, flinging his own cigarette off the edge of the balcony.

“And the second option?” he asks finally, fully turning towards her and regarding her with unexpected respect.

The gleam in her eye is decidedly predatory, and he finds himself unaccountably nervous. “You fight.”

He blinks at her, calculating and sure and feels the edge of despair retreat a fraction. She nods and smiles slowly, her face softening into graceful lines and beautiful angles, and Sherlock finds himself wishing for the first time in his life that he was somewhat normal.

“But first,” she continues, brushing her hair back over her shoulder and shooting him a winning smile. “First, we dance.” The silence stretches between them, comfortable and oddly companionable, and Sherlock finally shakes himself out of his uncharacteristic melancholy. He favors her with a real smile and extends his arm with perfect manners. She takes his elbow with a delighted laugh, tucking her hand delicately against his forearm and steering him through the French doors.

“Oh, you’re going to be a handful, you are,” she sighs and rests her head on his shoulder, matching his long stride with practiced ease.

“I could say the same about you,” Sherlock murmurs, deliberately brushing his lips against her ear and grinning wickedly at the involuntary shiver that chases its way across her shoulders.

“You can count on that, Mr Holmes.”

: :

John is gone for an entire fortnight, and when he comes back, Sherlock tries desperately not to notice how silent his mobile is. He finds his hand straying to his pocket reflexively, infuriatingly imagining the vibrations that would hail an incoming text. It remains stubbornly silent and after two more weeks of endless tension and self-destruction, Sherlock finally admits to himself that John just might have moved on permanently.

There is only so much nicotine can do, and Sherlock feels himself slipping deeper and deeper into a depression so thorough he can’t even find it in himself to move. He watches as the sunlight travels across the sitting room ceiling, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s incessant tutting and Mycroft’s disapproving insistences, and he vaguely notices that he keeps rubbing at the crook of his left elbow.

This is worse that boredom, worse than torture; it is all-consuming, solitary desolation and Sherlock finds he’s lost the will to fight. Sitting up on the sofa only makes his head spin and he briefly wonders when the last time was he ate anything, finding the answer distressingly unclear. He stumbles his way to the kitchen, noting with disgust the way his tee shirt clings to the sweat on his back, the creaking in his joints as he finally collapses into a kitchen chair, his shaking legs refusing to hold him anymore. He finds his mobile on the table, red light indicating his battery is almost completely dead.

Sherlock musters enough strength to hobble feebly towards the refrigerator, wincing at the smell that rises out of the appliance when he pries the door open. He shuts it with a snap, retching slightly and turning towards the cabinets instead. He finds a half-empty packet of Hobnobs and wolfs the stale biscuits down in record time, washing the whole affair down with a stone-cold cup of over brewed tea. His stomach clenches, and his head pounds as his blood sugar spikes uncomfortably, but he makes his way to his bed, plugging in his mobile on the way and mentally calculating his bank account.

If he sends Mrs Hudson to Tesco with his card, he can have her withdraw £60 without raising suspicion, and replenish his food stores in the same trip. That should make her happy at least. Then it will be one more trip to the cash point, a quick text to an old acquaintance, and he can sink into blissful oblivion.

Sherlock’s phone buzzes on his nightstand and he realizes his heart is pounding, hand shaking as he reaches for it. He glances at the display and feels his stomach drop. Mycroft.

_Don’t even think about it, brother dear._

Sherlock scowls and thrusts the mobile back onto the little table, his mind already calculating ways in which he can get around Mycroft’s security. It will take some planning, but Sherlock apparently has nothing but time on his hands, and the thrill of an unsolved puzzle is helping ease the perpetual ache in his chest as he shies away from thinking about the one person who keeps consuming his thoughts.

The Hobnobs seem to be helping, Sherlock’s mind beginning to clear as he formulates his plan, acutely aware of how his body is fighting the ingestion of food. All he wants to do is sleep, but every time he closes his eyes, John appears before him either pulling him closer and whispering half-formed fantasies into his ear, or pushing him away, telling him he’s second best, that Sherlock could never give him what John wants more than anything in the world: a family. He’s honestly not sure which is worse, so he squeezes his eyes shut and wills away the exhaustion, knowing that he can sink into blessed indifference in maybe two days’ time.

He pulls himself to the edge of the bed and forces his legs to stand, carrying him to the unforgiving spray of the shower as he washes away the grime of what appears to be at least five days’ worth of inactivity. He shudders as the scalding water cascades over his shoulders, feeling each sore muscle like an open wound, fingers subconsciously rubbing over bruises long faded.

He closes his eyes and John’s image immediately presents itself: John hot and hard, pushing into him and claiming him, telling Sherlock he loved him and he wanted him. The pressure in his chest redoubles and he gasps as his eyes snap open, telling himself that the water on his cheeks is just spray from the showerhead.

A thought occurs to him and he pauses in the act of rinsing his hair, a plan formulating in his head even as he feels his stomach begin to produce unacceptable quantities of ghrelin. He towels himself dry quickly, moving towards his bedroom and pulling his mobile from the table again. He scans his contacts quickly and hones in on the one name that might just be able to assist him with what he actually needs right now.

Janine.

: :

Sherlock sighs and sinks into a blissful haze; the melting, warm-blanket sensation spreading from the needle outwards as he eases the drug into his veins. He’s grateful for his old connections, still running strong in the dilapidated, forgotten parts of London. He’s paid a little extra, but the purity is definitely worth it. He can feel all of his cares slide gently from his shoulders; the now-familiar churning, sick feeling of regret fading into distant memory, and he wonders vaguely why he ever bothered to stop.

This is brilliant. This is _wonderful_. This is Christmas and warm jumpers and aged whiskey and curling up in front of the fire with a brand new triple homicide and it isn’t–it absolutely _isn’t_ –John bloody Watson.

Sherlock’s sluggish mind recoils at the thought, knowing intrinsically that if John ever finds out about this, there will be no returning from the hell he will put Sherlock through. There’s a niggling voice at the back of his mind that keeps insisting that he’s better than this, that falling into old habits is not the way to deal with a broken heart, no matter how good it feels right now.

And Jesus _Christ_ it feels good.

Sherlock falls heavily onto the bare mattress in the corner, his brain pleasantly fuzzy and numb, his limbs suddenly too heavy to remain upright. He leans back and stares at the ceiling, wondering how long it will take before the heroin wipes out John Watson entirely. Surely it should have happened by now, but he is still there: warm and soft and so very, _very_ kissable. Sherlock knows it’s an illusion, that John is not in fact here, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere among the world’s rejected children, but he smiles regardless. All he feels is pleasurable satisfaction, the endorphin rush not unlike orgasm as he lays down fully, his body heavy and sated and so unbelievably comfortable.

If he cannot have John, at least he can have this. It’s almost as good, the euphoria swelling and releasing with each slowly indrawn breath.

_Coward_ John’s voice taunts in his ear, and Sherlock’s hand comes up to swipe at nothing as he feels the bliss retreat a little. _Junkie_ comes from the other side, and Sherlock rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his arms as he tries to drown out the words. _Stupid, Heartless, Freak_ echo through his skull and Sherlock fists his fingers into his own hair to release the pressure there, his stomach clenching as the bile rushes up the back of his throat; his body rejecting the drug even as he heaves himself to the side, the dizzying, spinning feeling of nausea his only warning before he’s vomiting violently onto the floor.

He’s shaking and retching, too many words stuck in the corners of his mouth, too many years between injections, too many thoughts swirling through his bloodstream, too many feelings unrequited, not enough reciprocation. He retches again, the stink of stomach acid mixing with the slight taste of vinegar and causing his head to spin dangerously. He falls back onto the mattress, wiping at the corner of his mouth and grimacing when his sleeve comes away wet.

He sinks back into unconsciousness, his mind kicking feebly at the constraints of the lingering drug, but he can feel the blackness rising, swallowing him down into a sea of uncertainty and despair.

 

The second hit is nothing like the first. He rides the high briefly, but the resulting crash is far worse than he remembers from ages past. He scratches at his arm, knowing the marks there will be impossible to hide if he keeps at it, but the itching is unbearable. He stops himself just as he feels the skin breaking, layers of cells yielding to his incessant fingernails.

His head pounds with the residual haze and he feels as though his limbs have been filled with lead. He tries to rise from the mattress, only to find he’s lost control of his spine, each vertebra contorting in new and painful ways that leave him writhing in a messy heap on the flimsy polyfill. He can feel John’s presence in the back of his head again, radiating nothing but disappointment and anger, telling Sherlock that he ought to know better than to believe in the illusion of euphoria, that he should know when to stop chasing after an impossibility. Sherlock feels as though his chest is being torn open from the inside, all of the spiteful, wrenching pain ripping up out of his ribs as he heaves in a tortured breath through paralyzed lungs.

The ringing in his ears grows deafeningly loud, but he can still hear John’s words echoing through the cacophony: telling him he’s a lost cause, that nobody could ever love him, that he’s a freak who will never deserve anything more than emptiness and pain. Sherlock can hear someone screaming, and he wants to tell that person to stop; that it’s not helping, that John will never understand, will never want him in the way Sherlock craves.

It’s a long, long time before his body calms and he falls back into blackness.

 

The buzz of his mobile is entirely unwelcome, and Sherlock rouses himself groggily from the lingering cloud of oblivion. He checks the message fleetingly, noting with mild satisfaction that Janine is safely ensconced in 221B, but still completely oblivious of his actual location and purpose. If all goes according to plan, John will find her in his bed when he comes round tomorrow for the debriefing on Magnussen. By that time, word should have spread that Sherlock’s drug habit isn’t entirely in the past and he can play his angle nicely. Lady Smallwood had been a blessing in disguise: providing him with the perfect excuse for his backslide, though she would never know it.

He sighs and rolls onto his side, pulling the hood of his filthy sweatshirt up over his head to block out the early morning light. He can just make out the sound of John’s steady, military-sharp footfalls on the hardwood floor and wonders exactly how long his conscience is planning on torturing him this time. He can feel the presence of someone moving next to him, the boy on his left shifting suddenly into awareness, and he buries himself further into his overly large clothing. The only person he wants to see right now is far away in the suburbs, happily moving on with his life and not giving a single damn about Sherlock’s current whereabouts.

But then John’s voice cuts through the haze, visceral and unmistakable and _real_.

There is emptiness, and there is disappointment, and there is John.

: :

Janine is a motherfucking _genius_ , and Sherlock finds himself begrudgingly impressed with her overwhelmingly convincing performance. He can just see John out of the corner of his eye: red-faced and clearly livid as Janine draws Sherlock forward for a brief, but seemingly heated kiss.

“Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes,” she murmurs, all dark chocolate and spiced honey and Sherlock feels his mouth stretch into an honest smile at the conspiratorial glint in her eye.

He follows her just out the door, lingering long enough to give her a cheeky, encouraging grin before shutting the door and allowing the mask to fall for one brief moment. He steadies himself and turns back to John, tamping down on the instinct to celebrate at the look of incredulous, ugly envy stretched thinly across John’s face.

Sherlock begins to explain the significance of the case, trying to focus beyond the venomous, vicious glee that takes up residence in his chest as John doesn’t even attempt to pay attention, his thoughts clearly stuck on Sherlock’s supposed relationship and the alleged easy romance that has just passed between himself and Janine. It’s a small triumph, but Sherlock will take anything he can get at the moment, and he feels his spite twist further as John angrily agrees to discuss the case instead, his eyes livid and dangerous as he watches Sherlock like a hawk.

Once Magnussen arrives in person, however, Sherlock’s thoughts are momentarily derailed; all of his focus honing in directly on the admittedly far more interesting case than he’d originally thought. Magnussen is dangerous in a way James Moriarty was not: he isn’t trying to take down the world by burning it to cinders and dancing among the ashes. He’s smarter and wiser, choosing information as his weapon over brute force and fancy pyrotechnics. He isn’t a master villain; he’s merely a businessman with a penchant for blackmail, and that makes him a much more dangerous adversary than Sherlock could ever have anticipated.

He can feel his concentration wavering; thoughts splitting between the truly threatening man who just sailed out of his flat like the world’s most chilling supervillain, and the bristling man beside him, all spluttering indignities and barely-controlled rage.

“Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?” Sherlock says, his mind already slotting all the information into place, racing ahead of his mouth as he automatically formulates a new plan. John’s agitation seems to intensify and he gestures towards the soiled fireplace. Sherlock dismisses it quickly, his brain four steps ahead to the jeweler’s shop manager who owes him a favor. If he can get there in the next hour, he can have this entire case wrapped up by midnight, and hopefully by then John will have swallowed the whole Janine story like a lamb to the slaughter. Then Sherlock can have his revenge as well as the pleasure of seeing when John realizes his feelings are not as simple as he’d like to believe. They will have to discuss the baby situation, of course, but Sherlock is confident that John will come back to him regardless, as long as he can properly convince John that he wants Sherlock more than he wants his wife.

Sherlock becomes aware that his mouth has kept on talking, and abruptly stills himself long enough to remember what exactly it is he’s saying.

“Right,” he murmurs quickly, “I’ll see you tonight. I’ve got some shopping to do.”

He’s halfway out the door when John calls after him: “What’s tonight?” Sherlock smiles to himself and feels the incredible sense of triumph in his very blood. John is walking right into this like the blind idiot Sherlock likes to pretend he is, and he feels his own pulse speed at the thought.

“I’ll text you the details,” he calls back, making his way out the door and deciding if he wants to take a taxi to the jeweler’s or if it’s nice enough out to walk.

“Yeah, I’ll text _you_ if I’m available,” John shouts back, exasperation and honest, still-simmering anger evident in his voice.

“You are. I checked,” Sherlock says absently, and he’s halfway down the first set of stairs when he feels a tight pressure at the back of his collar.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” John demands, wrenching his fist back and pulling Sherlock with him, back up the few stairs and throwing him bodily through the sitting room door. Sherlock stumbles backwards, hand instinctively rising to his neck where he can already feel his skin beginning to bruise. “What do you mean you _checked_?” John seethes, advancing on Sherlock with a look like thunder.

Sherlock hesitates for a brief moment before straightening to his full height, indignation and challenge radiating off of him in waves. He can feel his own heart begin to pound, adrenaline and fury racing through his veins and making everything seem sharper, harsher, more urgent.

“I consulted your _wife_ ,” Sherlock spits out, all the carefully tamped-down feelings raging suddenly out of control. He’s still coming down from his high, mild withdrawal making him tetchy and even more abrasive than usual. “Obviously,” he adds with an imperious drawl, watching with malevolent satisfaction as John’s jaw clenches, his entire body stilling into almost unnatural calm, lips thinning into the dangerous smile that precedes gunfire and razor wire.

“So now you two are all chummy-chummy and I’m what? Passed between you like some sort of shared _pet_?” Sherlock feels his face heat, John’s description a bit too close to his own feelings for comfort, but John is advancing on him, all barely-controlled power and intense ire. “You’re supposed to be _my_ friend, you complete arsehole. _Mine_ , do you understand me?”

Sherlock’s knees hit the arm of the sofa and he barely catches himself before he topples over, keeping himself steady by sheer will alone. He hates the thrill of arousal John’s words have sparked, and he can feel his own anger fading at such clear possessiveness, but he strongly reminds himself that this is exactly what he’d hoped for: John getting a taste of his own medicine for once.

“I’m not your property, John,” Sherlock grinds out, teeth clenched against his body’s instinct to sway forward into John’s heat.

“No, I’m just meant to be yours,” John growls and fists two hands in the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket, bringing him forward with a tight jerk, Sherlock’s neck nearly snapping backwards with the impact. John’s mouth is hot and hard, his tongue demanding and dangerous as he forces Sherlock’s lips apart. Sherlock gasps and cannot help the way his body arches instinctively forward, realizing his mistake the moment John’s grunts in triumph. He pulls back with a muffled cry, trying to pry himself away, but John shoves at his shoulders, sending him splaying backwards across the sofa, his long legs flailing uselessly in the air for a moment before they are pinned down by John’s weight as he launches himself right after.

“You are such an infuriating, arrogant, _shit_ sometimes,” John growls into his neck, dexterous fingers tugging and yanking at Sherlock’s zip until he has a hand in between them, Sherlock’s body betraying him even as he tries to squirm away. John’s smile is all teeth and threat and he curls his fingers tightly around the hard length of Sherlock’s cock, pulling and jerking until Sherlock stops struggling and arches into it; all of his reactions confusing and jarring as his brain shuts down into pure panic mode.

This is bad. This is _worse_ than bad; this is disastrous, and Sherlock tries to communicate to his body that this isn’t what he wants at all, that John is not like this: this brutal, primal, grunting beast that doesn’t seem to understand that a line has been crossed somewhere between _want_ and _take_.

“John,” he gasps, cringing away from the way John’s teeth are tearing into his collarbone. “John _stop_.”

“Is this what you wanted, Sherlock?” John grunts, fingers squeezing tightly around Sherlock’s foreskin and snapping it back with too much friction. Sherlock’s breath rushes out in a mortifying whimper, but he shakes his head emphatically, feeling his erection begin to wilt. “ _Say_ it,” John demands with a rough twist of his wrist.

“No,” Sherlock bites out, desperately trying to hold rein on a world that seems to be spinning so far out of his control, he’s not even sure which way is north. “No, John. _Stop_. Please. Not like this.”

“Good,” John says, his movements gentling immediately. He smoothes his lips over the no doubt vivid purple bruise now adorning Sherlock’s clavicle. “I don’t want to _be_ like this with you. Not you,” he murmurs again, his fingers unclenching to rub apologetic little circles over the reddened skin of his penis.

Sherlock’s brain seems to stick on John’s words: something niggling at the edges of theory and evidence. “What do you mean ‘with me’?” he asks slowly, his body gradually relaxing as John’s movements remain soft and tender. John shakes his head and presses his lips to the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles.

“John,” Sherlock says, pushing him back a little to stare up at him, though John is frustratingly avoiding his gaze. A dawning horror is beginning to take shape in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach, and he resists John’s attempts to distract him. “When you say–does Mary–?”

John cuts him off with a kiss, effectively stopping all conversation as he clearly tries to make up for his roughness with the sensual slide of his tongue. Sherlock allows it for the moment, filing the question away for later and simply glorying in John’s attention. His half-hard penis is still curled protectively in John’s hand and as the kiss becomes steadily more heated, John starts sliding his palm across the shaft. Sherlock arches unthinkingly, his body’s confusion nothing in comparison to his mind. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, especially after John’s violent outburst, but John is warm and soft and everything Sherlock has ever wanted. He dimly recalls that there is still a considerable amount of heroin swimming merrily through his veins, though its effects have melted down into the occasional twinge of discomfort, but John is moving against him now, whispering nonsense into the bruised skin of his throat and Sherlock wants nothing more than to fall into this again.

He hesitates on the precipice, knowing that if he allows John to take him apart again, he’ll likely never find the scattered pieces of his broken heart, but he remembers all those nights of wanting John and not having him, and he feels himself falling before he even makes a conscious decision.

“God, Sherlock,” John whispers against his tongue. “A whole fucking _month_. I can’t do this without you.”

And it’s not fair; it’s _so_ unfair, and Sherlock fights his body’s instincts to curl closer, his spine already twisting as John’s tongue trails a clean line down to his pulse point. “You were gone,” Sherlock rumbles, his voice dropping into the velvety register he only has when he’s with John. “You were on your _sex_ holiday,” he points out, and he can’t help the touch of jealous hurt that infuses the tone.

“Shh,” John says, the susurrus chasing along Sherlock’s skin and into his very bones. “It wasn’t–we didn’t–” John trails off, his eyes closing with a pained expression before he’s back at Sherlock’s mouth, sucking a kiss right out of him and circling his fist at the same moment. Sherlock’s brain seems to split in two completely different directions: one half of him rocking against John’s now damp palm, the other stuck on the idea that John and Mary apparently didn’t have sex on their honeymoon. It’s a very interesting bit of information, and he opens his mouth to ask for clarification, but John’s tongue curls around his and he is lost to sensation.

“Christ, I want you,” John says, nipping the pointed end of Sherlock’s chin as he begins to shift himself downwards. Sherlock’s fingers bury themselves in John’s hair, his entire body a riot of conflicting emotions. John nuzzles the soft skin of his belly, pushing up on the rumpled silk of Sherlock’s shirt and dipping his tongue into the crease of his navel. Sherlock’s brain seems to short-circuit, every nerve in his body suddenly throbbing with arousal. He barely registers the movement as John gently grips him behind the knees and swings them both sideways, Sherlock now effectively sitting on the sofa with John on the floor between his spread thighs.

He realizes what’s about to happen a split second before John moves, and he feels the tenuous threads of his control snap entirely as John shoots him a small, encouraging smile. He feels the tug of John’s fingers on his trousers, arches his hips up to allow John’s clever hands to ease between his pants and his skin, knows that there is no chance now of stopping this even if he somehow wanted to.

The first brush of John’s tongue across the exposed glans of his cock is like a jolt of electricity. Sherlock’s entire body bows forward, his fingers fisting tightly where they still grip John’s short hair. John hums against his prick and slides the first few inches into the wet cavity of his mouth, and Sherlock feels every millimeter throb with intense pleasure. John’s eyes flick up to his face and he smiles a little, his mouth contorted and gorgeous and Sherlock is not going to last long at all.

Sherlock shuts his eyes tight, trying to close down some sensory data to stave off his embarrassingly quick orgasm, but it only makes the sensation of John’s hot, wet mouth all the more acute. John’s tongue begins rubbing little circles against Sherlock’s frenulum and Sherlock feels his hips arch up of their own volition, John’s mouth tightening as his gag reflex kicks in. He coughs a little and pulls back, licking at the head until his breathing evens back out and he plunges his mouth down again. Sherlock feels his muscles coiling, all the remaining blood in his body rushing to the surface as John’s perfect, tight mouth clamps down on him.

“John,” he gasps, teetering on the edge of bliss until John’s clever fingers reach down, stroking a firm knuckle over the skin of his perineum and pushing. Sherlock’s breath rushes out of him as he comes, John’s greedy mouth swallowing him down as Sherlock jerks and twitches, endorphins seeping into his veins and making everything hazy and bright for a moment.

John is still suckling him a minute later when Sherlock pushes at his head, over sensitivity making him cringe away. John lets Sherlock’s cock slide out of his mouth with an obscene slick noise, running a thumb along the edge of his bottom lip where a bit of semen seems to have seeped out. Sherlock tries to calm his racing heart, chest heaving with labored breath as he takes in John’s dark, possessive gaze.

“Come here,” Sherlock pants, forcing his trembling limbs to coordinate enough to tug John up, licking into his mouth with lazy contentment. John growls against his lips, the hot, hard length of him pressing domineeringly into Sherlock as he rests his weight forward. Sherlock catches him and pulls him in tighter, feeling the thick ridge of John’s cock as it slides against the exposed, sensitive skin of his groin.

“You,” John pants into his throat, hips rocking in a mindless rhythm as he chases his own orgasm. “You’re _perfect_.” Sherlock groans and forces his body into compliance, gathering enough coordination to slide down the sofa, landing in a cramped heap on the floor between John’s legs. It’s an uncomfortable position, but Sherlock can’t care about that now; not with the prospect of tasting John, of consuming him in the basest of ways. John gasps above him, eyes wild and frantic as he shuffles backwards a little, bracing his hands on the back of the sofa for balance as Sherlock’s deft fingers tug at his trousers.

Sherlock feels the power shift entirely, and he doesn’t even bother to repress his dirty smirk as he finally wrestles John’s denims down, taking his pants as well with dexterous and determined thumbs. John’s prick is red and wet, pearly fluid leaking from the tip, and Sherlock suddenly wants it more than anything: to taste the very essence of John Watson, to feel him go to pieces at Sherlock’s hand, to swallow him down and imprint his DNA so every newly generated cell of Sherlock’s body is irrevocably entwined with John. He can still feel the seductive pull of orgasmic lethargy, can still feel the slightly dizzy feeling of the drug in his veins, but he _wants_ so badly that his body’s aching limitations don’t even register.

He presses forward and finally, _finally_ puts his mouth on John’s cock. The noise echoes through the flat as twin groans of pleasure release into the air, John’s knees buckling a little as Sherlock sinks his mouth down as far as he can. The angle is wrong; Sherlock’s neck arching too far to accommodate the sofa behind him, but he can finally feel the way John’s cock swells against his tongue, the salty-bitter-slick taste of semen bursting across his palette with every shivery thrust of John’s hips.

“Christ, your fucking _mouth_ ,” John gasps above him, one hand coming down off the sofa to bury itself in Sherlock’s curls. It feels incredible and Sherlock moans around his mouthful, pushing his head up into the contact and sucking harder to convey his approval. John lets loose a desperate, breathless chuckle and tightens his fingers, tugging a little as Sherlock establishes a brutal pace.

He makes the mistake of glancing up and nearly chokes as the erotic image above him imprints itself to his retinas for all eternity. John is staring down at him: eyes bright and fevered, his wonderful, worn face flushed as pleasure courses through him, teeth clamped harshly down on his bottom lip as if to muffle the ragged, desperate moans that are falling from his mouth like rain.

Sherlock’s neck is beginning to cramp painfully, his back twisted and tight where he’s squished up against the sofa, but he can feel the way John’s muscles are tightening, feel the frantic, galloping pace of John’s pulse as he nears orgasm. Sherlock runs a shaking hand across John’s thigh, fingers inching into the space between his legs where his bollocks hang heavy and tight. He glances up at John again and receives confirmation with a jerky nod, pulling his mouth off John’s prick with an undignified, wet slurp for a moment. He wets his fingers generously, using the abundantly thick saliva of arousal to coat them thoroughly before sliding his lips over the head of John’s cock again. John jumps a little, but pushes into Sherlock’s mouth, hips stuttering as Sherlock’s fingers run lazy circles over the stretched skin of his perineum.

The desire to push into him, to have some part of himself held within John’s body is too much. Sherlock reaches with long fingers until he can feel the wrinkled skin of John’s anus against the pad of his index. He rubs at the tight muscle for a moment, feeling the way John’s thighs clench, tasting the thick bead of pre-come that eases out against his tongue, and he thinks this might be what drowning feels like. Sherlock sucks hard, hollowing his cheeks and pushing relentlessly until the very tip of his finger slips into John just to the first knuckle.

John’s orgasm is violent and sudden, taking them both by surprise. Sherlock’s mouth floods with the bitter, slippery taste of come and he chokes a little, feeling as excess liquid seeps out of the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin even as he swallows convulsively. John is shaking; muscles trembling wildly and Sherlock just manages to catch him before he collapses entirely, twisting them both so John lands sprawled across the sofa with Sherlock’s forehead pressed into his thigh.

“Jesus,” John finally pants, lifting a shaking hand and running his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock hums in pleasure, content to just lay here forever; sore, sated and entirely covered in John’s come. The thought causes an odd twinge of discomfort in his chest and he raises his head slowly, taking in John’s completely wrecked form. John smiles down at him lazily, the post-orgasmic endorphin rush causing his face to glow with hormones and affection.

Sherlock wants to bask in it; wants to roll himself in the chemical soup seeping through his blood, but there’s a niggling thought prickling at the edges of his consciousness.

“John,” he finally says softly, his voice hoarse and cracked with overuse. John’s smile turns a bit cheeky and he shifts forward to run the pad of his thumb along Sherlock’s chin, gathering the slick mixture of semen and saliva that is still clinging there. Sherlock shudders and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth; absurd pride and mild disgust warring for dominance.

He tries again: “John, what you said before—about Mary–”

John’s entire body tenses and the calm, satiated expression drops from his face like a velvet curtain.

“Leave it,” John says sharply, sitting up and starting to tug at his clothing, straightening up enough to dislodge Sherlock from his perch and pull up his trousers. His entire demeanor is ringed in frigid hostility and Sherlock feels the rejection sink pitifully through his spine, landing to pool cold and aching in the base of his abdomen.

“John,” he tries, his voice an embarrassing mixture of plea and misery.

“For god’s sake!” John erupts, standing and jerking forcefully away, zipping his trousers with a decisiveness that Sherlock feels right down to his core. “Why can’t you just leave well enough alone for one sodding minute? Not everything is about you.”

Sherlock is utterly taken aback, the verbal explosion completely unexpected; John’s vitriol unfurling between them like a poisonous cloud. He feels his own anger rising to the forefront, prominent and unstoppable as his defenses start snapping back into place with almost audible clicks. He stands gracefully, smoothing his own clothing back into something that resembles normality.

“No,” he agrees, the cold, hard edge of steel to his tone. “Nothing of this is about me at all, is it, John?” John’s gaze snaps up to him, rage and pain and a small hint of fear. It makes Sherlock’s vision blur. “You just want a comfortable place to vent your frustration. Someone to hold you through the night when your _wife_ gets to be too much. That’s all I am to you now: a tool for revenge against your chosen boring life. A convenient fuck.”

The obscenity crashes between them with horrible finality. There is a terrible, ugly feeling creeping over Sherlock’s skin as every recent encounter with John rushes back in stark contrast; reality ruthlessly pushing through the thick haze of Sherlock’s own romanticized memory. John gapes at him before his fists clench tightly at his sides, his face turning a blotchy, angry red.

“This was a mistake,” John says, and his voice is flat and cold and Sherlock cannot, _cannot_ do this again.

“John,” he rumbles. It’s anger and bitter resentment and the mortifying edge of despair, but John’s jaw is starting to take on that hard, stubborn edge that Sherlock knows will get him nowhere very quickly.

“I thought this could work,” John continues. “I thought that you of all people would understand the difference between emotional attachment and just a healthy shag.” The words hit Sherlock like a slap to the face, his anger receding as he realizes what is happening.

The tension stretches between them like an elastic band and Sherlock is not sure what the snapping point will be. He’s tempted to push the issue, knowing the outcome could fluctuate either way, but John is beginning to sink into that dangerously calm expression that precedes imminent irrationality and Sherlock is frankly sick of the churning well of emotion he seems to have taken over his unstable sanity of late.

He bites back a million scathing retorts and clenches his jaw, feeling as the very air seems to vibrate with the strain of regret.

“Are you coming tonight or not?” Sherlock finally asks stiffly. John stares hard at him for another moment before jerking his head in a tight nod. Sherlock releases the breath that he’d been holding and gathers his discarded coat, pulling the familiar wool around his shoulders like armor. He can still make it to the jeweler’s shop if he hurries, and he secretly relishes the thought of the look on John’s face when Sherlock will propose to Janine.

A little malicious flame begins to rekindle at the back of his mind.

: :

Magnussen’s office is not what Sherlock had expected. His plan had seemed bullet-proof, and yet Janine is laying prone on the floor in a pool of her own blood, and somewhere in the back of Sherlock’s brain he feels pity for her. She had played her part perfectly, and Sherlock silently revelled in the obvious jealousy that stamped itself across John’s face plain as day, but to see her unconscious on the carpeting is doing funny things to Sherlock’s brain. He smells the distinctive scent of perfume and traces it to the source, finding Magnussen’s chair still warm and wondering where in his calculations he went so completely wrong.

He races up the stairs, vaguely aware of John hanging back with Janine and the security guard, doing his doctorly duty and leaving Sherlock to the action. His first hint of error should have been the Claire-de-la-Lune, but he has to admit, even to himself, that when Mary turns to him, gun poised, he is completely blindsided.

He registers the triumphant look in her eye for a split second before his mind seems to completely stall out: shock overriding every other sense as his brain tries to recalibrate around this new information. The look she gives him is jealousy and spite mixed with a heavy dose of superiority and Sherlock can feel his grip slipping the longer she points that damned gun in his face. He makes a snap decision, following his base instincts for once, refusing to believe that the woman married to his John could possibly be this much of a miscalculation.

Everything goes spectacularly wrong.

: :

: :

There is pain, and there is darkness, and there is John.

He shines like a beacon through Sherlock’s consciousness, warm and soothing and somehow more present than anything else in the room. Sherlock blinks through bleary eyes, watching as John’s back rises and falls with each deep breath. He is slumped across the side of Sherlock’s hospital bed, spine twisted and contorted into something that will make his muscles ache in the morning, and Sherlock longs to pull him close and wrap him up and unfold him from his uncomfortable position, but his limbs seem to be filled with lead and his heart clenches when he remembers he’s not allowed to touch John like that anymore.

His fingers stretch of their own volition, the heat from John’s arm seeping into their tips as Sherlock holds his breath. John sighs in his sleep and shifts, nuzzling subconsciously closer and Sherlock feels his heart stall out. He allows his fingers to thread delicately through ash-grey hair and feels his heart break just a little bit more.

John begins to stir, muscles moving beneath his skin as he pulls himself gradually out of sleep. Sherlock freezes, his fingers still embedded in John’s hair, until John’s eyes blink open. Sherlock pulls his hand back, afraid of John’s reaction, but John just smiles at him sleepily and shuffles closer.

“Hey,” John says softly, his voice warm and cracked with sleep. Sherlock feels his chest twinge painfully, but he allows John’s hand to find his on the blankets, fingers unconsciously lacing together as John sits up and stretches with a wince. Sherlock belatedly realizes he’s holding his breath and takes a ragged gasp of air, watching as John’s expression narrows in concern.

“How are you feeling?” John asks, immediately switching into doctor mode before Sherlock’s very eyes. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but finds his tongue is dry as sandpaper and his throat just about as scratchy. He coughs weakly and it feels like being shot all over again.

“Christ,” John says sharply, standing hastily and moving forward to reach behind Sherlock’s back, shifting the pillows around until he’s more or less propped upright. John reaches for the tiny swinging table and hands Sherlock a styrofoam cup of ice chips, watching carefully until Sherlock manages to separate one and slip it between his parched lips.

John’s eyes are like lasers, scanning over him with skill and precision, and Sherlock feels an absurd flush rising to his cheekbones at the thought of John seeing him this helpless. He tries to move again, but the pain slices through his ribs like fire and he gasps around the melting ice in his mouth.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Just stay still, alright?” John says, familiar fond exasperation laced through the worry in his tone. “You’ll never get better if you keep squirming around like that. You’ll tear your stitches.”

“Mary,” Sherlock croaks, his vocal chords feeling like shredded jerky as he gestures frantically towards the door.

John’s eyebrows contract together, confusion and a touch of hurt crossing over his face for the briefest moment before he presses Sherlock back into the pillows with a firm hand.

“She’ll be along later,” John intones evenly, but Sherlock can tell he’s deliberately holding his voice steady. Sherlock tries to keep the panic off his face, but knows he must be failing miserably as John reaches for him again, holding his shoulder in a careful but determined grip.

It is imperative that John understand. Sherlock tries again: “No, John. _Mary_ ,” he says again, voice creaky and worn. John just presses his fingers to Sherlock’s lips for a brief moment before he brushes a soft kiss along his forehead and reaches for the morphine drip, increasing the dose a little and smiling sadly at Sherlock.

“It’ll be alright, love. I’m not going anywhere,” John murmurs and resumes his seat, stroking his thumb across the back of Sherlock’s knuckles as the world dims around the edges. Sherlock is vaguely aware of the bustle of activity, of nurses and doctors coming in and out, of his medication and blood transfusion bags being changed, but all of his attention is honed in on that one small word uttered in John’s low voice, echoing over and over through his mind.

: :

When Sherlock wakes again, it is dark. His vision is disturbingly blurred and he searches for a brief moment for what pulled him from his drug-induced sleep. Someone is standing next to his bed, the hazy outline of a familiar coat solidifying with every passing second. Sherlock feels his chest clench with panic, his entire body seizing with adrenaline, but the morphine is keeping him still and he has to fight to keep his eyes open.

Mary leans over him and smiles blandly into his face, but her eyes are cold and hard, and Sherlock is suddenly reminded of Moriarty’s manic grin. The thought makes him shiver and he can hear his heart rate monitor speed up tellingly. Mary glances over at the machine impassively before she looms back into Sherlock’s focus.

“You don’t tell him,” she says softly, but clearly. “Sherlock? You don’t tell John.”

There’s a clear threat in her tone and Sherlock struggles to keep his eyes open, feeling the world tilt dangerously for one frightening second before he forces himself to _focus_. Mary’s expression hasn’t changed: that familiar, vaguely amused smile, but Sherlock can see the thick skin she’s stretched over herself, can now see the cracks in her exterior and he finds himself honestly disgusted by her true nature.

“Oh, you’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” she says placidly, resting her hip on the side of his bed. Sherlock tries to jerk his arm away, but his limbs are like stone against the mattress. She takes his hand in hers and stares down at it almost wistfully. “I had hoped we might come to an agreement, you and I,” she continues softly, running the pads of her delicate fingers over his knuckles. Sherlock can taste the bile as it rises up the back of his throat, but the drug is keeping him frustratingly silent.

“I know about you, Sherlock Holmes,” Mary says quietly, finally looking up at him, and Sherlock feels his breath catch. Gone is the funny, cheerfully cheeky girl who married his John and took him away. In her place is a monster: cold and calculating, and Sherlock feels revulsion spread thickly through his skin. “I know how you work, you see. I know that you keep yourself so removed, keep yourself pure and above the rest of us pitiful mortals, but everyone has a pressure point, my dear, and John Watson is most definitely yours.”

She holds his gaze and quirks her lips in a secretive smirk, as though they’re both somehow in on a joke and John is the punch line. It makes Sherlock’s skin crawl.

“I didn’t even mind that you were sleeping with him.” Sherlock feels his face drain of color, and she smirks coldly at him. “Oh, did you think I didn’t know? You’re not the only one who can be observant,” she says coolly, as if this entire conversation is nothing more than a business transaction, but Sherlock can hear the underlying smear of jealousy and greed that permeates her words, despite their content. “I was perfectly willing to negotiate, but you just _had_ to get in my way, didn’t you?”

Sherlock finally manages to pull his hand away, sleep and morphine pulling at his consciousness and making his head spin. He can feel the possibilities spinning around in his useless mind, but his thoughts are hazy and jumbled, blurred around the confusion of the drug in his veins. She stands slowly and stares back at him unblinkingly.

“If you tell John anything you think you know about me, I will _ruin_ you, Sherlock. I will make him hate you and revile you, and I will take him so far away that you will never, ever find us. Is that understood?”

She nods as though Sherlock has agreed and moves towards the door, but she turns back to pin him with a vitriolic glare. “I will do anything to keep John Watson. It’s best you remember that.”

She shuts the door behind her with a quiet click, and Sherlock can feel his entire body shuddering with residual tension. His head is so heavy, and he can feel sleep tugging at the corners of his mind, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to _think_.

Mary has played him perfectly, and the thought rankles against his confidence. He cannot now tell John who shot him, regardless of how much danger it puts him in. John is the single most important thing in the world, but he is highly manipulatable. He knows John would never abandon him willingly, but he is susceptible to pressure, and the child growing in Mary’s womb is a very powerful bargaining chip indeed.

Once again, Sherlock is forced to acknowledge that if he asks John to choose between himself and Mary, the outcome will not be to Sherlock’s liking. And honestly, who would ever choose Sherlock over anyone else in the world? With Mary, John has a comfortable life with a family of his own, where he gets to settle into normality and safety with the prospect of a stable home and a loving child. What does Sherlock have to offer him, really? A crutch for his adrenaline fix, yes, but what of intimacy? John cannot live without an emotional connection, and whatever they’ve been doing since the month before the wedding, John _chose_ Mary for his life companion, even after Sherlock returned and made his affections clear.

The only way to protect John now is to save Mary as well. The realization is bitter and loathsome, but there is nothing else to be done. With great effort, Sherlock reaches for the small table, grasping at his mobile through the sheen of pain and despair. He searches his contacts quickly and types out a message, hoping Billy is not all the way on the other side of London.

It’s going to be a long night.

: :

“Sherlock?” John’s voice sounds wary and cautious on the other end of the mobile, as though he’s already half aware of the horrifying reality that Sherlock is about to reveal.

“John,” Sherlock replies, trying to mask the relief in his tone, but knowing he’s failing miserably.

“Where the hell are you?” John demands. “Christ, we have half of fucking London out looking for you.”

Sherlock feels his lips curl into an inappropriate smile. “I’m perfectly well, John. Never fear.” It’s a lie. Sherlock can feel the blood oozing out from under the thick hospital bandages, his hand shaking where he holds his mobile up to his ear. The stolen wheelchair creaks ominously as he shifts, biting back a gasp as the pain slices through his nervous system.

“Jesus,” he hears John curse, slightly muffled and tinny through the rough connection. “Sherlock, what the fuck is going on? Where are you?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, knowing this is the moment he might just lose John entirely. “John, I need you to do something for me,” he says urgently, already feeling the morphine receding as he eases the drip out of his arm.

“Anything,” John breathes across the line, and Sherlock feels his chest twinge painfully again. He closes his eyes and forces himself to focus around the pain.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant, and god knows I wish I could spare you the pain it will cause, but I need you to trust me.” Sherlock can taste the bitter undertone of honest vulnerability, and hates that John will probably miss it entirely.

“Of course,” John says, conviction and utter willingness translating even over the gritty phone connection.

“I need you to meet me at 23 Leinster Gardens.” He can hear John shuffling around on the other end, the click of a biro being uncapped and the slight rustle as John searches around for a scrap of paper. “Bring your overcoat–the one that looks a bit like mine,” he ignores John’s pointed huff of protest, “And the projector that’s in my bedroom. Also, the bullet proof vest we stole from Lestrade after that kidnapping case.” Sherlock grits his teeth as the pain increases. He hears Billy shift behind him and nods once to indicate that he should exit now to perch himself on the street corner. Billy eyes him speculatively, but shrugs and makes his way out of the door.

“Why?” John asks warily, but Sherlock can already hear him gathering his things to leave.

“John,” Sherlock says, his hand starting to sweat around his mobile casing. “I am sorry, but you are just going to have to trust me.” He rings off before John can reply and sinks back against the cheap vinyl backing of the chair.

Now all he has to do is wait.

: :

There is more pain, and there is brightness, and there is still John. Sherlock’s eyes flutter open as he takes in the tightly controlled chaos of the ambulance. Someone is pumping oxygen into his lungs, the sharp tang of medical grade plastic corrosive and bitter as it slides across his tongue. He is aware of a steady pressure on his right hand and lolls his head over enough to peer at John: looking furious and determined, but holding his hand as though Sherlock might slip away somehow despite being strapped to a trolley.

“You are so fucking stupid,” John grits out between clenched teeth and beeping monitors, and Sherlock feels his lips curl into an inappropriate smile just as darkness reaches forward to draw him in.

: :

Sherlock wakes in hospital for the second time in as many weeks, only this time it is not John who is sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chair at his bedside. He groans and tries to roll over, but pain slices through his chest like wildfire and he sinks weakly back into the mattress with a huff.

“I really wouldn’t bother trying again if I were you,” Mycroft says coolly. He smiles blandly over the rim of a cardboard cup and Sherlock can practically feel the threat like a physical presence in the room.

“...John,” Sherlock manages, but his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth and it comes out more a jumble of consonants than anything intelligible. Mycroft tuts and nudges the small table with the miraculous cup of ice, which Sherlock reaches for immediately. Pain tears through his chest at the movement and he cringes, but manages to grasp the small white cup, bringing a cold square of ice to his lips with minimal additional discomfort.

“John is not here,” Mycroft says steadily, tapping the end of his ridiculous umbrella against the tiled floor. Sherlock feels his stomach drop, all the blood draining from his face as he nearly chokes on the ice melting against his tongue.

Mycroft rolls his eyes and tuts again. “He’s not gone for good, Sherlock,” he admonishes, “Although I would think given the delicate situation you might show a bit more... discretion.” Sherlock shrugs, unable to keep the relief from flooding through his chest. Mycroft’s face darkens.

“Are you really so pedestrian, Sherlock?” he intones dryly. “He will never be entirely yours.” Sherlock feels his face contort; jealousy and anger and loneliness sharp and acidic against the back of his tongue. He opens his mouth to speak, but manages only a painful grunt in response. Mycroft’s glare does not waver. “I would not think it wise to purposefully provoke retribution from the current Mrs Watson. Is he really worth risking your life _again,_ brother?”

Sherlock swallows down what little cold water that’s pooled on his tongue and manages an emphatic, albeit raspy: “ _Yes_.”

Mycroft studies him with narrowed eyes for an entire minute, his face an unreadable mask of polite indifference. Finally, he sighs and his gaze softens into something that looks suspiciously like regret.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he says softly.

There is the clatter of footsteps in the hallway, and then John is there, pushing through the door with a huff. He stops dead at the sight of Mycroft and nods curtly.

“Ah, John,” Mycroft croons, his face splitting into a welcoming smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. John considers him warily, but moves into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Sherlock’s pulse speeds up at the very sight of him, a fact that’s glaringly apparent, hooked up to infuriatingly loud monitors as he is. John glances at the screen momentarily before he turns his glare on Sherlock.

Sherlock’s blood freezes at the cold look. John is more than angry; he is _furious_. All the warmth that bloomed in Sherlock’s chest at the sight of him curdles; the sick, hollow feeling making his stomach clench. John stares at him for a long moment, a myriad of emotions passing over his face from one heartbeat to the next before he seems to come to some sort of decision. He walks forward stiffly, his gait military crisp and formal, and Sherlock feels the tenuous threads of damning hope begin to unfurl tentatively in his gut.

Mycroft stands gracefully and makes a sweeping gesture. “I’ll leave you boys to it, shall I?” he says with an infuriating smirk, shooting Sherlock a look saturated with false cheer and a thick smear of underlying threat. John just nods again and perches himself in Mycroft’s newly vacant chair, his back ramrod straight and his expression tightly blank.

Mycroft strides out of the room with one more cursory glance, expensive shoes tapping elegantly along the silent corridor. Sherlock turns to John cautiously, wondering how much of John’s anger he is expected to endure before he simply shakes apart with suppressed agitation.

“How do you feel?” John asks.

Sherlock considers him for a long moment before he replies: “Like utter shit.”

“Yeah, well. You look it,” John says grimly, reaching for Sherlock’s chart and busying himself. If he’s startled by Sherlock’s cursing, he doesn’t show it. “You are extremely lucky,” he continues, still not looking at Sherlock. “You had massive internal bleeding and your body initially rejected the second surgery. They managed to staunch the blood for now, but you are going to be in a hellish amount of pain and your expected recovery time has grown exponentially.”

He finally looks up at Sherlock, all sharp accusations and clipped hostility. “Was it worth it?”

Sherlock blinks at him slowly, feeling as though he’s freefalling through empty black desolation. “Yes,” he whispers eventually, his heart plummeting at the look of cold incredulity on John’s face. “It was worth a thousand more injuries if I could keep you safe, John.”

John’s expression softens for the briefest moment before the door swings open and the nurse bustles in with a tray of disgustingly bland hospital food. Sherlock hates her on principal and cringes away as she presses her fingers to his wrist, counting his pulse despite the obnoxiously loud monitor behind him designed for precisely that purpose. She tuts at him and reaches for his chart, only now seeming to register John’s presence.

“Oh,” she says in surprise, and John stands stiffly to hand over the paperwork. “I’m afraid Mr Holmes is not allowed to have visitors,” she says imperiously. “Beyond family, of course,” she amends, clearly trying to save herself from a formal complaint.

“I’m his partner,” John replies with open hostility, and Sherlock feels his stomach swoop with utter astonishment. It isn’t exactly a lie, but John has always fought against the term, insisting that people would take it the wrong way and assume things about them that are untrue. The nurse looks between them quickly, all fluttering apology over a thin layer of barely concealed disgust.

John just smiles tightly at her and lets the awkward silence stretch.

“When can I leave?” Sherlock finally asks, breaking the intense stalemate and causing two pairs of startled eyes to turn towards him in shock.

“Sherlock,” John begins just as the nurse says, “That is simply not a possibility Mr Holmes.”

“Why not?” Sherlock grits out, his patience beginning to fray. “John says the surgery went well. I am no longer bleeding and this bed is doing far more damage than good. Besides, I’m sure you have more important things to do what with sustaining two, no _three_ lovers and an illegitimate pregnancy to deal with.” The nurse bristles angrily and John rolls his eyes, but Sherlock can see the small muscles around his mouth slacken a little, as though he would be smiling if he didn’t have to put on airs.

“You’ll need constant care, Mr Holmes,” the infuriating woman insists, a stubborn tilt to her chin that would put Mrs Hudson’s determination to shame. “I’m afraid you won’t be allowed to leave without proper supervision.”

“I’ll go with him,” John says, taking the chart back from the nurse with an authoritative nod. She looks at him dubiously, clearly sizing him up and finding him wanting. It makes Sherlock’s hackles rise, but he’s hardly in any position to argue. John, however, notices her scrutiny and glares her down. “I’m Dr John Watson,” he grits out, “I promise you I have the proper qualifications. I can pull up my CV if you’ll be needing proof.” She glances briefly between them, but shrugs and begins to transfer the paperwork, leaving Sherlock to stare in utmost bewilderment at John’s stiff back.

“John,” he begins, afraid of his own assumptions. “There’s no need–”

“There _is_ ,” John interrupts. His face is hard and cold, and Sherlock shrinks back into the pillows, too weak to argue and, if he’s being entirely honest, too glad to care. He can feel the ache in his chest recede a little as John steps into the hall to clarify some things with the medical staff.

John is finally coming home. Everything is going to be just fine.

: :

Things are not fine. Sherlock wonders how on earth he could have miscalculated so spectacularly again. He has exactly what he wants: John is here, back at Baker Street with his laptop and clothing and even a toothbrush, but something is still... off.

Sherlock is limited to sitting on the sofa, which Mrs Hudson has positively piled with pillows, or laying in his bed. The pain in his chest is excruciating; every movement a laborious, torturously slow process. John helps him as much as he’s able with steady hands and curt nods, but it seems to Sherlock like there is an invisible barrier between them. John is being perfectly polite and professional, as though he’s merely a hired medical aide instead of Sherlock’s lover, and Sherlock absolutely _hates_ it.

John won’t sleep in Sherlock’s room, using the injury as an excuse, but Sherlock is not a complete idiot. He knows John is angry–hell, the entire sodding street knows John is angry–but he never could have expected this. John is treating him like any other patient: doctor mask firmly in place every time he needs to help Sherlock change his dressings or bathe. It makes Sherlock’s chest ache beyond the gunshot wound, but every time he tries to engage John in any kind of conversation, John finds excuses to leave when Sherlock moves the talk beyond medical necessity.

The boredom is _intolerable_.

Sherlock heals slowly; each day his breathing becomes a little easier, every morning, movement gets slightly less harrowing until one day he wakes up feeling more or less normal. He’s still a little stiff, but he’s able to make his way out of bed and to the bathroom without pausing to wince and clutch at the bandages around his ribs. It has been an entire month; four weeks of stoic silences and stubbornly clenched jaws, but John is still here and Sherlock isn’t foolish enough to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Two more weeks of unbearable formality and Sherlock is starting to wonder what it is exactly he’d been hoping for in the first place. John is obviously not softening; leaving during the day for long stretches of time to go to the surgery, to the pub, to the library– anywhere that Sherlock _isn’t–_ and Sherlock is beginning to understand that the persistent pain in his chest has less to do with the bullet tearing through his flesh and much more to do with John.

Sherlock stares at the ceiling of his bedroom, felling the last vestiges of sleep slide off of him in miserable waves. His patience is beginning to wear thin and he wonders how long he’s expected to endure John’s constant willful ignorance before something snaps irrevocably between them.

Sherlock heaves himself out of bed, the only pulling in his chest he feels being the tape on the gauze over the shiny new skin just below his right pectoral. He shuffles into the hallway, wondering if John will allow him to leave the flat today. Perhaps he might even be permitted to text Lestrade for any wayward cases, he thinks with bitter resentment.

“John?” he calls tentatively, expecting to find him on the sofa, wrapped up in the old tartan blanket and looking as stubbornly indifferent as possible as he has every morning since Sherlock’s newfound mobility. John is not on the sofa, nor is he in the kitchen and a cursory glance up the stairs shows the second bedroom as open and dusty as ever.

Sherlock feels cold dread sink down through his spine, panic beginning to etch its way across his ribs, his entire chest suddenly feeling constricted and tight. There’s a ringing in his ears, and his heart begins to race with all the possibilities: John has been kidnapped, he has sustained some kind of injury in the night, he has finally decided that Sherlock is not worth the effort and has gone back home to his pregnant wife, leaving Sherlock permanently and devastatingly alone.

Sherlock feels his breath catch and he spins on the spot, ignoring the momentary twinge of pain in favor of tearing through the sitting room, upending the pile of old case files on the coffee table, looking for any sign that John is not gone for good: his mobile charger, his laptop, his small case, but he sees nothing beyond the blinding panic, his senses overcome with senseless emotion. Sherlock stops in the middle of the rug and forces himself to _think_.

He focuses on his surroundings, clamping firmly down on his body’s reactions and concentrating on the scene. The blanket is piled on the end of the couch, unfolded in a heap as though it was tossed to the side hastily. John’s case is peeking out from behind the armchair, mostly still packed but for yesterday’s dirty laundry, which is folded neatly and sitting on the cushion. Sherlock takes a deep breath and clears his mind, finally registering the faint sounds of water rushing through old pipes.

Sherlock takes a breath, and then another, feeling calm rationality descend on him like a warm blanket. John is still here. He has not abandoned Sherlock (again). He is merely in the shower, and Sherlock is ridiculous.

He perches himself on the side of the kitchen table, watching the bathroom door for signs of life. Now that he’s not in an absurd spiral of wayward emotion, Sherlock can clearly hear sounds of splashing, but he strains his ears and listens closer. The shower sounds... odd, as though the water is hitting the tiled walls and not the muted tapping of spray on skin. He stands and moves towards the door, alarm ratcheting up another few notches as he hears a muffled shifting noise followed by what sounds like sniffling.

Sherlock teeters on the edge of indecision, but sheer curiosity wins over self-preservation and he cautiously eases the door handle open.

John is sitting in the bathtub, knees pulled up to his chest, fully clothed and staring at the wall with deadened eyes. It feels as though a lump forces its way up Sherlock’s esophagus, John’s blank stare chilling him to the bone far worse than any threat.

“...John?” Sherlock says softly, creeping into the tiny room and noting the pointed lack of steam. John doesn’t even blink, just stares at the tile on the wall as though Sherlock is not even there. Sherlock takes the chance and moves further, slowing his steps down and raising his hands in a placatory gesture. When John still doesn’t acknowledge him, Sherlock edges closer to the bath, pulling back the sheer curtain and reaching into the spray. It is stone cold.

“John?” he tries again, concern making his voice tight and soft. John finally moves, his gaze still unseeing as he glances towards Sherlock. He is shivering slightly and Sherlock reaches for the taps, turning the hot water on until it runs warm. John stares at him with such a lost expression, Sherlock doesn’t even hesitate before he’s climbing into the bath next to John, folding his long legs against his abdomen until his knees are bumping gently into John’s.

They sit there for an indeterminable amount of time until John stops shaking, his breathing coming in a slower, more even pace.

“I read it,” John finally says, his voice sounding cracked and exhausted. Sherlock feels his eyebrows contract in confusion, his mind still stalled on John’s uncharacteristic break down. “The jump drive,” John continues, and Sherlock feels his own face drain of color.

John stares back at his own knees, the fabric of his denims so dark with water, they look almost black beneath the spray. “Tell me you didn’t know,” he says softly.

Sherlock blinks at him in shock. “I promise you, John,” he says quietly, willing John to believe him.

John finally focuses on him, his eyes still blank and lost. “Did you know she was stationed in Afghanistan?” he asks, his tone completely flat.

Sherlock shakes his head, a dark sense of dread sinking painfully into his gut. John nods silently. “Anna Aldridge. She’s from California. US Navy SEAL who went rogue; joined a troupe of hired mercenaries in Kandahar.” He meets Sherlock’s eyes with cold understanding. “Specialized in long-range weaponry; specifically skilled with a sniper rifle.”

Sherlock closes his eyes in realization; every small piece of information he’s gleaned from Mary Morstan clicking silently into place. John’s fingers close over his left shoulder in a clearly unconscious move, his entire body seeming to shrink in on itself and Sherlock cannot help his own body’s response. He leans forward until his own hand closes over John’s, their fingers twining together over the soaked cotton of his shirt, beneath which Sherlock can feel the raised edges of flesh that map out John’s scar in long, twisted lines.

“I can’t do this anymore,” John whispers, anguish carving long, jagged lines into his face. Gravity fails and Sherlock sinks forward, folding John into his arms as though pulled there on strings. He can feel John shaking again, memories and grief clearly slicing through him with every ragged breath. He can feel the heat of John’s skin seeping through his soaked clothing despite the chill of the water, and the knowledge that they haven’t been this close in almost two months is blinding in its cruelty.

Sherlock feels his own despair morph into terrifying, blinding rage. He can feel the swell of unwelcome emotion, dulling his usually sharp senses. All he wants is for John to take that horrible, empty look off his face, for him to understand that he is not alone in this. He pulls John closer, protective instincts kicking in belatedly as he cages himself around this strong, but fragile man.

“Make me forget, Sherlock,” John whispers into his soaked collar and Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He stands, still holding John against him and reaches one hand over to turn off the taps. He contemplates just dragging John to bed like this, but decides that wet bedding is hardly romantic, so he pulls back slightly to begin working at the stiff buttons of John’s sodden shirt. It takes an excruciatingly long time to peel both of them out of their clothes; wet wool and denim proving to be a powerfully stubborn barrier.

Once they are both free and naked, Sherlock takes a clean towel from the cabinet and pats John tenderly dry, worried a little at his still blank expression. After a cursory swipe to his own body, Sherlock tosses the towel onto the basin and leads John slowly into his bedroom. John doesn’t resist when Sherlock pushes him softly down, his body folding as though he’s lost the ability to fight. Sherlock follows him gently, covering John with as many limbs as he can and just clinging to him there.

It’s not fair. She should never have been allowed access to John in any way, but Sherlock was away, fighting for the life John so desperately deserves and unable to prevent the very actions that have caused him so much grief. The guilt tastes acrid and harsh and Sherlock swallows back a litany of excuses and apologies, concentrating on the way John is breathing beneath him; solid and real and deserving of so much better than Sherlock can ever provide.

“I’m so sorry, John,” Sherlock whispers, laying his hand over John’s steadily beating heart and hoping John will someday find it in himself to forgive Sherlock. John’s breath catches and then he’s there, twining his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and kissing him desperately. Sherlock can taste the sharp tang of regret, the bitterness of remorse, but also the sweet clarity of forgiveness and the overwhelmingly powerful need.

John crushes against him, all sturdy limbs and broken affection and Sherlock cannot help but fall into this, into _John_. He kisses John’s scar with reverence, feeling the muscles tense beneath his lips. This jagged wound, this ravaged piece of memory holding more sentiment than anything else in Sherlock’s life. It is the catalyst that brought John Watson to him and he will not regret it for anything in the world.

“I love you,” John whispers into his hair, so soft Sherlock is half convinced it isn’t real.

“John, I– “ he starts, unable to articulate clearly around the lump in his throat.

“Don’t,” John murmurs fiercely and clutches Sherlock’s head closer, muffling Sherlock’s response against his skin. “I know. Just... just don’t.”

Sherlock licks the skin beneath his lips, savoring the taste of John’s sweat as it rolls across his tongue. John arches into him, and Sherlock can feel all the tension and pain seeping out of him by degrees. He licks his way up John’s neck; promising without words, apology and regret laced through every caress, loving John without reservation and Sherlock’s heart is so full he fears it will simply burst, but it would be worth it just to make the pain stop. John makes a sound low in the back of his throat that speaks of repentance and anguish, of jagged memories and bitter despair, of loneliness and heartache and terrible, wrenching pain and Sherlock feels a sob catch deep in his lungs, spinning along his tongue and through his lips like a prayer. He cradles John’s face between his palms and kisses away the loss, licks away the tears, mends all the broken corners of John Watson in the only way he can. He’s dimly aware of John’s panting breath, his fingers clawing at Sherlock’s shoulders as he tries to get him to move, but Sherlock is not about to rush this. Not now.

“Shh,” he murmurs across John’s forehead, his own movements languid and unhurried. He wants to relish the feeling of John against him again for the first time in what feels like eons. His heart gives a great heave of pressure and he knows instinctively that this time is different. John is gazing up at him in amazement and wonder, and Sherlock feels as though every synapse in his brain is suddenly on overdrive; cataloguing and marking John’s every response for when he is no longer here. The thought sinks painfully into Sherlock’s chest, but he brushes it aside for now.

He bends his head and presses his lips to John’s, feeling the way his mouth falls open in supplication and licking his way across the stretch of wasted time. John groans against his tongue, hands reaching forward and drawing Sherlock in; a mutual give-take that has them writhing together in perfect synchronization.

“Sherlock,” John gasps wetly into his mouth, “Take me apart. Make me yours.”

Sherlock shudders and kisses him fiercely, all of the love swelling in his heart and making it difficult to breathe. He mouths at John’s neck, feeling the marvelous pace of his heartbeat as it pumps along his veins: giving life to this miraculous, utterly gorgeous man he has the privilege to love. John arches beneath him and Sherlock becomes suddenly aware of his own arousal, pheromones spreading thick and fast through his body as John’s legs fall apart beneath him.

Sherlock’s breath catches and his hips move of their own volition, John’s body shifting along his own until they are properly aligned. Sherlock moves tentatively, feeling as his cock rubs tantalizingly along the sweaty crease of John’s groin. John’s head falls back in supplication, his cheeks suspiciously wet and Sherlock hears snatches of whispered endearments, chanted decadently across pale skin as John bends forward to run his lips across Sherlock’s scar.

It’s too much and not enough and Sherlock cannot help the way his body twists forwards, blood rushing to the surface of his skin and making everything more sensitive, more urgent. John’s eyes blink open and the look of pure adoration in them nearly sends Sherlock into a frenzy of want. He slides one hand down to John’s thigh, pulling until John wraps his legs around Sherlock’s hips and Sherlock’s cock slips down into the crease of John’s arse, the feeling so reminiscent of their first time it’s almost painful in its sentimentality.

“Please,” John whispers against Sherlock’s jaw, one hand resting tenderly on his neck, thumb sweeping over Sherlock’s cheekbone as he smears wet kisses across Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock shivers and presses his mouth to John’s, tasting his consent with every slide of John’s tongue.

It takes some maneuvering, but Sherlock manages to shift them without breaking contact, reaching into the bedside table and retrieving the bottle of lubricant. John groans and cants his hips up, the tip of his leaking erection dragging along Sherlock’s abdomen and leaving wet smears of pre-come across his skin like an obscene tattoo. It’s possessive and primal and Sherlock fumbles with the lubricant, spilling slick all down his wrist and onto the sheets in his haste.

John’s eyes are heavy lidded and intense, watching as Sherlock slides his hand between them, running slippery fingers over the tight swell of John’s bollocks and across his perineum until he feels the tightly furled skin of John’s hole. John’s back arches at the contact and his cock jerks sharply, another bead of sticky pre-come rolling down the side of his shaft and into his pubic hair. Sherlock longs to chase the flavor with his tongue, to drink John in as he shatters, but that will have to wait for another time.

John’s anus is pulsing and contracting, the little opening blood-hot and tight against Sherlock’s probing finger. Sherlock can feel the resistance there, the small hesitation that makes him pause, lifting his face to check John’s expression as he presses against the little muscle. John’s face is contorted in pleasure, and as Sherlock rubs against him, John’s eyes flutter open to pin him with a look of such overwhelming yearning, Sherlock feels his own cock throb with agonizing need.

“John,” Sherlock purrs, his voice heated and nearly subsonic, and he finally feels John’s body give, his finger sinking in to the knuckle in one slow, slick slide. John’s back arches up off the bed and Sherlock can feel his inner muscles clenching and rippling around the intrusion.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John gasps, his body in constant motion now. Sherlock gasps at the sheer heat of him, John’s tight passage gripping his finger with almost alarming strength, and the thought of his penis there, embedded in that slick heat is making Sherlock’s entire body thrum with greed.

He pulls his finger back and slides it in again, watching John’s face as he cries out in unmitigated pleasure. Sherlock hasn’t even found his prostate yet, and John is a shaking, sweaty mess. The thought is incredibly hot, and Sherlock feels the tendrils of his own arousal coiling tightly around the base of his spine. He bends his head and takes a kiss, licking into John’s open mouth as he crooks his finger and brushes intently across John’s prostate.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Sherlock,” John moans, his hips stuttering as he scrambles for purchase, but Sherlock pins him down with his own body; a dark, feral edge spreading through his veins as John nearly sobs in pleasure.

Sherlock can feel the heat of his own body, his cock throbbing painfully between his legs as John completely falls apart on his hand. He slips another finger in and spreads them wide, swallowing John’s gasp of pleasure-pain as he rocks into the penetration. It’s more than Sherlock has ever dared imagine and now that he has it–has John spread out beneath him and practically begging to be fucked–he’s unsure he’ll ever be able to let this go again.

“Sherlock, god,” John whines, his entire body twitching with over stimulation as Sherlock presses the pads of his fingers to John’s prostate and _pushes_. John’s groin is entirely covered in fluid now, his cock leaking pre-come enough to smear between their bodies, the salacious slide of it causing Sherlock’s pulse to race with unbridled lust.

With one final twist, Sherlock extracts his fingers, ignoring John’s grunt of protest until he reaches between his own legs to his sadly neglected erection. He slicks his length with the excess lubricant and grips his shaft firmly at the base, guiding himself into position until he can feel the loosened, open muscle of John’s hole pulsing against his slit. The idea of what he’s about to do nearly derails him, and he takes a deep breath before forcing himself to pause, gazing down at John until his eyes blink hazily open.

John gazes up at him for a breathless second before he reaches one hand up into the back of Sherlock’s curls, pulling him down into a kiss that’s far more tender than the situation merits. Sherlock can feel an absurd sob catch in his chest and he lets himself sink into the kiss, feeling every single emotion pass between them like an unfinished conversation. John’s fingers tighten in his hair and Sherlock bends forward, pressing his hips closer until he can feel John’s body give, opening beneath him into glorious friction and heat.

Sherlock gasps and rests there, held so deeply within John’s body he can’t tell where he ends and John begins. John’s hand loosens slowly, his fingers easing their hold until he can run his palm along Sherlock’s cheek, catching the moisture there and sweeping it away. Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath and holds himself still, allowing John’s body to accommodate and feeling the swell of emotion rise up within his chest, threatening to drown him as he sinks impossibly deeper.

“Move now,” John whispers, arching his neck up to run his lips along the edge of Sherlock’s jaw, and Sherlock feels his body give over to sensation. He pulls his hips back sharply and thrusts forward, watching with rapt attention as John’s body undulates against the mattress, his head falling back with a deep moan of satisfaction.

It is easily the most erotic thing Sherlock has ever seen, and he holds desperately onto the edge of bliss, wanting to make this sweet agony last as long as he’s able; to imprint John’s body against his own so he will never have to feel alone again. John is pulling him in, every shuddering gasp travelling right through his body and into Sherlock’s, and Sherlock cannot hold back a moment longer.

With one great heave of strength, he scoops a hand beneath John’s back and pulls him forward, slamming his hips into John’s arse hard enough to rock the bed against the wall; the dull, rhythmic thuds adding to the cacophony of echoing groans as Sherlock gives over and takes his pleasure.

He can feel his orgasm looming; heat spiralling up through his muscles and causing his breath to catch on a ragged groan. John’s fingers tear into his skin, nails like claws raking down his back and the small flash of pain triggers an animalistic response somewhere in the very depths of Sherlock’s brain. He growls and slams his hips forward, fucking into John with a brutality that should be alarming, but John’s face splits into a sharp grin and he arches into the next thrust, meeting Sherlock’s hips with a matching force.

Sherlock can feel the hold he has on his own control shattering as John cries out beneath him, twisting and writhing until he can throw one leg over Sherlock’s shoulder, dragging him in and changing the angle to glance against his prostate. The effect is stunning, John’s face morphing into pleasure so intense, Sherlock is honestly worried that John might just break apart in front of him.

John braces one arm up over his head, fingers splayed against the headboard and the sight is so arousing, Sherlock can feel his bollocks tighten, his cock thickening as his orgasm approaches. He feels a thrill of selfish possessiveness chase along his spine and he dips his head to sink his teeth into John’s pulse point, feeling the skin give as he marks John for all the world to see.

“ _Mine_ ,” he snarls, feeling as John’s body tightens in response, his cock battering into John even harder as John gasps and bows beneath him.

“Yes,” John pants, his eyes all pupil as he gazes up at Sherlock with a matching need. “Say it again.”

“Next time I’m going to _taste_ you, John,” Sherlock growls, his voice ragged and sharp with acute arousal, every filthy fantasy he’s ever suppressed spilling forth from his mouth with obscene articulation. “I’m going to lick you open and fill you with my tongue until you are begging for my cock.”

“ _God_ yes,” John pants, his entire body bucking beneath Sherlock with every depraved word.

“No one else will ever fuck you the way I do,” Sherlock continues, his mouth seeming to run on its own accord, possessiveness and greed making his blood thrum. “Because nobody else will ever have this. You are _mine_.”

And that’s it; it’s finally enough. John arches against him and comes spectacularly apart, body shaking as pulse after pulse of ejaculate rushes out of him in great, wracking waves. Sherlock watches him shatter, every single nerve in his body seeming to sharpen and contract as John clenches tightly down on his cock. Sherlock fucks him through it, pausing only to watch as John’s chest heaves with shuddering, gasping cries, his legs spasming around Sherlock’s torso as he tips over the edge of irretrievable bliss.

John melts back into the mattress, boneless and spent, and Sherlock rocks his hips tighter, wanting to feel every single twitch as John’s body shivers through aftershocks. John opens his eyes and stares up at Sherlock in amazement, his limbs soft and pliant after his devastatingly magnificent climax.

“I love you,” John says, cradling Sherlock’s face between his shaking hands, and Sherlock has to close his eyes against the flare of beautiful anguish that squeezes its way around his heart. He feels his body tense, every single muscle coiling tighter and tighter until he finally crashes over into white-hot pleasure. He holds himself still for one breathless heartbeat, sensation radiating through him with deafening strength until his body rocks forward again, his cock erupting hard and deep into John’s willing body. Sherlock’s vision dims around the edges and he realizes he’s stopped breathing, dragging in a heaving breath and forcing his body to remain upright lest he crush John beneath the weight of his emotion.

John seems to understand, because he pulls Sherlock down, rolling them gently over until John is sprawled across Sherlock’s sweaty abdomen, their bodies slotted so naturally together it’s heartbreaking. Sherlock tries to calm his dangerously racing pulse, feeling his body twitch with residual heat as oxytocin and vasopressin release into his bloodstream. He clutches John tightly to his chest, afraid to let go and find he’s imagined it all.

But John is still there when his vision clears, smiling down at him with so much warmth, Sherlock wonders how he ever could have though John didn’t want him. Absently, Sherlock brings John’s left hand up to his mouth, kissing along the gold band on his ring finger and feeling reality begin to creep back into his mind.

John grunts and pulls his hand away, folding it beneath his chest and hiding it like a dirty secret. Instead, he presses forward and runs his tongue along the sweat at Sherlock’s collarbone, and Sherlock feels his chest expand with tenderness as his heart begins to pound. John eventually sighs and melts forward against Sherlock’s chest, tucking his face into the space beneath Sherlock’s chin and breathing deliberately steadily.

“You’re married,” Sherlock forces himself to say. John stiffens against him, but he doesn’t move to pull away, and Sherlock feels the bitterly familiar distress recede a little. Sherlock shifts a little and brings his arm around John’s shoulders, smoothing his fingertips down John’s spine and memorizing every single bump of his vertebrae while trying desperately to ignore the way Mary’s threats keep echoing through his subconscious.

“She’s having my child, Sherlock,” John murmurs eventually, the fingers of his left hand creeping up to trace lazy patterns into the sweat over Sherlock’s heart. John’s face is a study in contrition; all deeply etched remorse and the weighty burden of decision and Sherlock cannot stop himself from tilting John’s chin up and placing a devastatingly tender kiss across his mouth.

“I can’t go back,” John whispers against his lips. “Not now; not like this.”

Sherlock sighs and feels his stomach clench, every fibre of his being telling him to hold on John and never let him go; to shield him from the world and all the many hurts he has yet to endure, but he knows life is not that simple, and that sometimes you have to break things in order to fix them.

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice, John,” Sherlock rumbles softly, fingers curling around John’s hand and rubbing along his knuckles. “As you’ve rightfully said, she’s having your child. I will gladly give you all that I am, but I can never give you that.”

John exhales sharply and his fingers clench around Sherlock’s.

“What are we going to do?” John asks softly, his words brushing gently over Sherlock’s skin and seeping into the very depths of his battered heart.

“I don’t know, John,” he murmurs. He runs the fingers of his left hand up the back of John’s neck and pulls him closer, as if he could somehow keep him just like this: soft and quiet and entirely his. The thought makes his chest tighten and he brushes his lips across John’s forehead. “But I’m not letting you go without a fight. We’ll figure something out.”

It’s as vague an answer as he can give, but he feels John’s lips stretch into a tired smile against his skin and Sherlock hopes as hard as he’s able that he can somehow get them both out of this unscathed. It isn’t an encouraging prospect.

: :

As it turns out, shooting a gun at someone from point-blank range is not nearly as disconcerting as he’d always imagined. He watches as Magnussen’s body drops to the ground with a deep sense of satisfaction, gratification greatly outweighing the repercussions for a few delightful seconds. But then Mycroft’s voice cuts through the haze and John’s panicked outcry distracts him from the righteous relief, and the entirety of the situation comes crashing down on him in nauseating waves of consequence.

He drops John’s gun at his feet and feels the adrenaline coursing through his body, his limbs shaking as each possibility dances its way through his brain. None of them are promising. He can sense John edging closer to him and it becomes suddenly imperative to protect him from the outfall of this whole disastrous mess.

“Get away from me, John. Stay well back,” Sherlock shouts, raising his own hands above his head in surrender. He’s vaguely aware of the commotion surrounding him, of laser sights trained on him as though he’s going to lash out and attack at random, but all Sherlock can focus on is John’s breathless cursing behind him. Sherlock closes his eyes in defeat and turns to look at John, apology and regret and overwhelming love spattered all over his face. Their eyes lock and Sherlock feels as though the ground disappears beneath his feet.

“Give my love to Mary. Tell her she’s safe now.”

And there it is: that look of sheer horror, of wonderful, _terrible_ realization. That look that Sherlock has been waiting for, that John is just now finally understanding. It’s a hollow victory, but Sherlock will take it nonetheless.

He doesn’t resist when Mycroft’s men approach him slowly, weapons slightly lowered as they realize he’s not going to fight. He allows his hands to be pulled behind his back, feels the disturbingly familiar grate of metal against his skin as the cuffs click into place, but his gaze doesn’t waver. He keeps his eyes locked on John’s until they pull him physically around, ducking him into the helicopter and whisking him away without a second glance.

: :

: :

Sherlock stares at the blank wall of the holding cell, feeling as though his chest has been carved open and filled with sand, each grain seeping out as time passes inescapably forward. His only consolation now is the fact that John is not being held accountable for any of Sherlock’s irrational decisions.

John’s desolate expression seems to burn itself into Sherlock’s retinas; the image of him standing there, his expression open and unguarded and terrified resurfacing every time Sherlock closes his eyes. He knows his actions have very real consequences, but he cannot regret his deeds if it means John will be safe.

He hates what Mary has done with a sick, poisonous loathing; forcing Sherlock into an impossible situation where the outcome would be undoubtedly grim, but there is nothing for it now. She won in the end, and the thought twists painfully in his gut.

Days flow into nights with deplorable inevitability, and Sherlock begins to wonder if they’ve all forgotten about him completely. Mycroft had said he would avoid a trial if at all possible, but Sherlock had expected someone at least to inform him of what’s going on. Days become weeks and Sherlock feels every second like a guillotine; cutting him away from John in graceful, sweeping arcs that leave him bleeding and breathless.

It is therefore a complete shock when he hears the door at the end of the corridor scrape open, steady footfalls echoing through the empty hallway until they stop abruptly in front of his cell.

“You have a visitor,” Mycroft drawls, his voice polite over the thick swell of anger still simmering in his tone. Sherlock blinks back at him, his entire chest aching with the desire to see John, but he knows Mary would never let that happen, not now that she has him so indelibly captured again.

“What does it matter,” Sherlock sighs, his voice cracked and harsh from disuse. “It’s not John.”

“Isn’t it?” Mycroft intones with infuriating smugness, and Sherlock feels his chest clench in spite of himself. “Your Dr Watson is quite tenacious when he wants to be,” Mycroft continues, the boredom in his voice stalling a little as he pins Sherlock with a hard glare. “I’ve warned you about this kind of sentimentality, Sherlock. Look where it’s got you.”

“As long as John is safe–” Sherlock starts, but Mycroft quells him into silence with a stern look.

“John’s safety is not at risk, Sherlock,” Mycroft grinds out sharply. “What good is _his_ safety when you are dead?”

Sherlock’s breath catches and he feels the blood drain from his face. “So they’ve come to a decision, then. I’m to be sent back to Serbia.” Mycroft levels a steely gaze at him and Sherlock feels the truth of the situation sink like a cold stone into his gut. He closes his eyes around the knowledge that he will likely never see John Watson again and feels the humiliating swell of choking tears threaten up the back of his throat.

“ _Why_ , Sherlock?” Mycroft asks much more softly, his own frigid mask faltering as he looks sadly at his condemned little brother.

“Because he’s worth it,” Sherlock murmurs.

Mycroft’s jaw clenches and his face hardens in the space of one heartbeat. “I truly hope you mean that, brother, because you have sacrificed everything you have to save him. I hope he appreciates the gesture.” Mycroft sweeps away without a backwards glance, the anger and resentment apparent in every pointed click of his shoes against the concrete.

Sherlock sinks back against his mattress, knowing that all of his considerable mind is no match for the ordinance of time. He nearly forgets about his visitor around the cold dread that wends its way through his heart, and is only briefly startled when he hears the door swing open again.

Sherlock glances over from his slumped ennui and feels his heart stutter to a halt before galloping forwards with wrenching speed. He lurches up off his cot and races to the bars, reaching forward for John before he’s even aware he’s moving.

“What were you thinking?” John demands desperately, pulling at Sherlock frantically even as the cold metal digs into both of their skin.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, trying to forget the knowledge that he will be leaving John here, alone again as he goes off to die in hateful solitude. John’s face twists in grief and he wrenches at Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking him violently through the bars.

“You made me take her back,” John grits out, anger and despair pulling on the lines of his face and making him look ages older than he is. “You told me you’d find some way out of this and what? Now I’m just supposed to forget?”

“John, I–”

“No,” John spits, his entire body shaking with despair. “I can’t do this, Sherlock. I cannot continue to pretend to feel nothing while you rot away here like some kind of common criminal.” Sherlock does not point out that common criminals are hardly likely to be kept in MI5 secure holding cells, but he lets the oversight slide in favor of clutching John’s biceps in his trembling hands. “You’re not a criminal, Sherlock,” John says frantically, pushing himself as hard as he can against the bars as if he can somehow meld through them by sheer force of will.

“John,” Sherlock whispers painfully, squeezing his eyes shut against the flood of emotions that are threatening his composure. “I killed a man. Shot him dead in front of twenty witnesses. Like it or not, I am a murderer.”

John jerks away as though Sherlock had slapped him, his entire body rigid and tense as he gazes at Sherlock with helpless impotence. Sherlock feels the chasm between them widening with every ticking second, his body overcome with grief as he tries to imprint every single inch of John into his brain for as long as he remains alive.

“Is there nothing to be done?” John finally asks, his face chalk white, but his jaw clenched in stubborn determination. Sherlock loves him so hard it physically _aches_.

“No, John,” Sherlock says finally, defeat evident even to his own ears. John’s shoulders slump and he seems to teeter where he stands, and for one horrifying moment, Sherlock is afraid John might actually faint. But John just steps forward slowly and sinks to the ground, resting his back against the bars and sucking in a deep lungful of air.

“Tell me a story,” he eventually whispers brokenly, and Sherlock feels his knees give before he even makes a conscious decision, leaning his back against John’s through the bars and feeling the glorious warmth of his skin through too many layers of fabric. He reaches out on the cold floor and feels John’s hand meet his, their fingers wrapping tightly together as he begins to speak, his words meaningless as the rumble of his voice echoes down the long, lonely corridor.

: :

There are so many things left unspoken between them, and all Sherlock can do is stare at John’s miserable face, trying to brand every millimeter of skin into his retinas to keep as a talisman against whatever he has coming for him. He will hold John tightly in the empty cavity of his chest for the next six months or less, keep him safe and guarded in the darkest recesses of memory until the very last breath is sucked from his lungs.

“Actually, I can’t think of a single thing to say,” John says with such false cheeriness, Sherlock feels it crackle along his skin like brambles. Sherlock stares hard at him for a moment before the brightness is too much and he averts his eyes downward, unable to look at John Watson without trying to get closer: Icarus flying towards his doom all over again.

“No,” Sherlock says instead, “Neither can I.” It’s a lie, but they both let it pass unchecked. John steps forward and for one blinding moment, Sherlock believes John is about to kiss him here–in front of Mycroft and Mary and the whole of the sodding MI5, but he only inches forward, the lingering tension between them intensifying.

“The game is over,” John murmurs, but he may as well have shouted for the ringing in Sherlock’s ears.

“The game is _never_ over, John,” Sherlock insists, needing John to understand, to keep himself safe since Sherlock will not be there to protect him anymore. The thought is hard and acidic, but Sherlock presses on, willing John to comprehend: “But there may be some new players now.” John’s eyelid flickers a little, and Sherlock knows he is finally catching on. “It’s okay,” he continues, wanting to reach out and touch John, just one more time before he goes, but his arms feel like lead and his feet are sunken into the ground. “The East Wind takes us all in the end.”

John blinks up at him through furrowed brows, clearly understanding that there is a hidden meaning to Sherlock’s cryptic words, but unable to follow. “What’s that?”

“It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids,” he elaborates, every word a step farther from John. “The East Wind: this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth.” John is staring at him with eyes so blue Sherlock imagines he could sink into them and drown for days if he only has the chance. “That was generally me,” he adds with a small quirk of his lips.

John’s face splits into a dazzling grin and he nods with aching familiarity. “Nice,” he comments.

“He was a rubbish big brother,” Sherlock says softly, and John’s brilliant smile flashes again for a moment before the gravity of the situation seems to sink over him again. Sherlock watches it fade into darkness like an oncoming storm.

“So, what about you then?” John asks, his tone carefully even and steady, and Sherlock feels his stomach drop right down into his shoes. “Where are you actually going now?”

A million responses rush up through Sherlock’s brain, each one more desperate than the last, but he clenches his teeth on all of them. He knows if he tells John what is likely to happen, John will protest, and Sherlock is honestly not sure if he has the strength to resist. If John asked him to stay, he would stay in a heartbeat and damn the consequences.

“Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe,” he says instead, going for a tone of abject boredom, but he knows he fails at John’s steady, searching gaze.

“For how long?”

Sherlock’s blood freezes, a small, barely-perceptible shudder running along his spine. He cannot, _cannot_ look at John, instead gazing at the distant horizon and willing his voice to remain calm. “Six months, my brother estimates.” He can feel it already: the ticking of his heart counting down like an alarm. “He’s never wrong.”

John’s head snaps up at that and he stares hard and long at Sherlock, and for one thrillingly terrifying moment, Sherlock is absolutely sure John is going to stop him. “And then what?” John asks softly, and Sherlock realizes John _knows_.

“Who knows,” Sherlock shrugs. John looks away, and it’s all Sherlock can do to keep his arms at his sides, to keep from reaching out and holding John close and promising him that he’ll never leave again. He wants to tell John that he’s the only reason Sherlock has kept on living, that without John the world is empty and hollow. He wants to tell John that he loves him and that the world will never be the same without the two of them together as they were always meant to be. He wants to rail and scream at him, to shout that it’s not _fair_ ; that they should have had years and decades ahead of them. He wants to tell John about the life he’d planned for the two of them: retirement to the country where John could putter around in the garage and Sherlock could keep bees. He wants to hold John close and tell him he _matters_ , that Sherlock will love him until the end of his days and beyond.

The words fall ashen and tasteless in his mouth, crumbling to dust before he even has the chance to dismiss them.

“John,” he begins instead, forcing his tongue to articulate, forcing his vocal chords to work, “There’s something... I should say; I-I’ve _meant_ to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

John is looking at him with such intensity, Sherlock is sure he is going to burst into flames where he stands, ashes taken and scattered to the wind like a funeral pyre. Sherlock feels his chest contract and he realizes he cannot say those words now; not like this, when they are the last syllables ever to be uttered between them. The unfamiliar words get stuck on the back of his tongue, spinning behind his teeth, but he swallows them back.

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, but John is laughing: that bright, clear sound pealing through the air like bells. Sherlock revels in it, soaking in the familiarity and warmth, recalling the very first time he’d heard it–so long ago now it feels like another lifetime–the two of them collapsed against the atrocious wallpaper in the hallway of 221 Baker Street.

John is still grinning like six different kinds of fool when he turns back to Sherlock, all of the tension that has been building between them since the first time in that alleyway released one breathless giggle at a time. The easy camaraderie, the shockingly strong friendship flaring up again like it was never gone at all.

“It’s not,” he huffs out, lips still twitching with mirth.

Sherlock shrugs. “It was worth a try,” he says with some of his usual sly superiority.

“We’re not naming our daughter after you,” John says with familiar fond exasperation, but the smile on his face freezes as the words register. He’s suddenly hesitant and very sober, and Sherlock can feel the shroud of despair begin to descend again.

“I think it could work,” Sherlock tries, but the words fall flat. John’s smile is suddenly sad and burdened, and Sherlock simply cannot hold himself back anymore. With careful, precise movements, he begins to loosen his glove, sliding the warm leather over his fingers until his bare hand rests, exposed and vulnerable in the air.

“To the very best of times, John,” Sherlock rumbles, feeling his voice crack and shake beneath the weight of subtext. John stares at his hand for an indeterminable amount of time; as though he’s contemplating not talking it if it will keep Sherlock here longer. Sherlock’s throat tightens at the thought, but his hand remains steady in offering.

Finally, John reaches forward and slides his palm against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock feels the connection spark between them stronger than ever. It feels as though his heart passes right out of his chest and through his bloodstream; travelling along arteries and tendons until it reaches John’s grip, wrapping itself gently, but firmly in John’s capable hand. He holds John there, cradled against his palm until the world finally stops turning, leaving the two of them etched against the backdrop of steely grey sky for all eternity.

Sherlock’s eyes blink open and he takes a deep breath, the first in his afterlife without a beating heart. It feels strangely light and fragile, as though this husk of his body will blow away on the wind, and he squeezes John’s hand once more to complete the transfer before turning away sharply, knowing if he lingers a moment longer, his legs will not carry him any farther.

Sherlock watches as the aeroplane leaves the ground, his entire chest seeming to cave in from the pressure. He can barely see John, a tiny speck of grey next to the jarring red of Mary’s wool coat, and he knows now that he should have said something more on the pavement. Regret rises up the back of his throat; acidic and bitter and Sherlock swallows heavily against the tears that absolutely will not be suppressed.

He rests his head against the small window and thinks that if he cannot have John, at least he can die knowing he did all he could to ensure John’s continued safety and happiness. Mary might not make him entirely happy, but the baby will be something else altogether, and a small part of Sherlock’s heart contracts around the realization that he’ll never know her at all.

“Sir,” the steward interrupts, holding a wireless phone out to Sherlock and breaking his concentration with a jolt. “It’s your brother.”

Sherlock takes the phone with mild confusion, glad of the momentary respite from his wayward, maudlin thoughts. “Mycroft?”

“Hello, little brother. How is exile going?” Mycroft asks in a supercilious tone. Sherlock can practically see the honeyed expression on his stupid, arrogant face.

“I’ve only been gone four minutes,” he grits out instead. He is annoyed at the interruption, having finally made peace with the situation, only to have Mycroft mock him one last bloody time.

“Well, I certainly hope you’ve learned your lesson,” Mycroft articulates, his tone managing to contain polite indifference and an undertone magnanimous superiority. Sherlock feels tentative hope unfurl dangerously just beneath his ribs. He holds his breath as Mycroft continues, “As it turns out, you’re needed.”

All of the breath rushes out of Sherlock in one great heaving sigh. He tries to contain his relief behind brittle sarcasm and mocking displeasure, but he knows he falls short. Mycroft’s response is perfunctory and incomprehensible, and Sherlock finds himself intrigued in spite of himself. He barely dares to believe it when the plane makes an about-face, but he’s touching down again within mere minutes, up and out of his seat before the engines have rolled to a complete stop; one thought and one thought only flooding his mind as he waits impatiently for the cabin door to open: _John_.

The light outside the aeroplane is blinding, but Sherlock squints through the sudden flood of sunshine, practically floating down the folding stairs until he hits the tarmac, his pulse pounding so loud in his ears he cannot hear anything else.

There is sunlight, and there is hope, and there is John.

Sherlock closes his eyes with a smile, and breathes.

 

 

_Open up next to you, and my secrets become your truths_  
And the distance between what was sheltering me comes in full view  
Hang my head, break my heart, built from all I have torn apart  
And my burden to bear is a love I can’t carry anymore  
All I am, all I need; he’s the air I would kill to breathe  
Holds my love in his hands, and still I’m searching for something  
Out of breath I’m left hoping someday I’ll breathe again   
_~Breathe Again, Sara Bareillis_


End file.
